Roulette
by radishface
Summary: CHAPTER 4 UPLOADED The Paradise Kiss cast, five years later... life doesn't always go the way you want it to. [incomplete]
1. 1

****

Roulette

__

Disclaimers: Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Zipper, and Tokyopop.

__

Warnings and rants: (THIS IS A SPEC FIC!) Takes place five years after the manga series, or what is currently the manga-series. OOC characters, OOC situations... then again, this is five years later. Might give way to yuri/yaoi/slash relationships in the future. Keep an open mind, everyone. 

__

Summary: The Paradise Kiss cast, five years later. Life never works out the way you want it to, the way you expect it to, for better or for worse. In progress. 

****

Radishface

[ Yukari and George ] 

She took her long, black hair, and twisted it up so that it fell in waves down her shoulders, not quite reaching her back. Casting him a blank look, she took the lipstick from the counter and applied it, gingerly, while still managing to talk at the same time. 

"Really, if you don't think much of it at all, maybe we should break it off."

The man sitting in the chair, opposite of her vanity counter, gave a sigh. "Didn't we just talk about this yesterday?"

The girl flipped her compact shut and turned around to face him. "We've been talking about it for two months now. It's not working out anymore." 

"This coming from you?" He laughed, bitter, irony fused in his voice. "This coming from the person who never wanted me to leave her."

"I bet you get that all the time from your wives. And husbands." 

His eyes narrowed. "You don't think you're the first anymore?"

It was her turn to laugh, and she did. "Was I _ever_ the first?" 

"Once." He looked away. 

"Listen." She said, her voice a little softer, more gentle now. "We've had these discussions before, we've tried to make it work, but it never has. There's always that doubt in my mind--"

"Which you put there yourself--"

She shook her head. "But if I can't feel that way, then that means it can't work." She faced him, but he refused to look at her. She gave a bitter smile, and turned to the mirror again. "Just let it go. You're still attractive, you know."

"Is that it?" He chuckled, hysteria seeping into the edge of his voice, so unlike what he usually was. "That's all? I'm a good-looking playboy, that's it?"

"You have some redeeming qualities." She replied. "_I'm _the only one who doesn't see them now." 

"There were only a few people who saw through." He gritted out, through his teeth, the lump in his throat bothering him. "And then they all disappeared five years ago, and you were the only one who stuck by me." 

"That's probably why Mikako was so successful." She mused, clipping silver studs onto her ears. "There was only one of her to manage the whole Happy Berry business. It wasn't chaotic, and all the profits ended up with her."

"That's not the _point._" His hands hung by his sides, fisted, as he stood up. "I don't know why it didn't work out. We had everything, _you_ had everything, and even though I don't know where everybody else is, at least _you,_ out of all of us, were successful!" 

She shook her head, looking at him like he was something to be pitied. "I understand something now. It wouldn't have mattered if I was still back in high school and I had never met you, because sooner or later, 'Paradise Kiss' would have broken up anyway. And I would be off at some college, studying some major, so I could earn money later on in my life, which is what I'm doing now." 

"But you _enjoy_ it now."

"I do." She said simply, and made a half-curtsey. "But there wasn't that passion I had for it like I did before. Now, I'm just going through the motions. It's like eating a refrigerated birthday cake that's been sitting there for a week." 

"Stale, boring, and tasteless, a remembrance of good times." He said dully. "Like me."

"I guess that's the only eloquent way to put it." She shook her head. "I don't love you anymore, George, all right? I think it'd be best if you'd leave. I have to go on in fifteen minutes." 

He knew he was being stared at, and tried not to scowl, tried to keep an amiable expression on his face. After all, he was in Ikebukero, one of Tokyo's business districts, and he was young, not some middle-aged man. The only respectable thing he could find in his closet was an old white school shirt his mother had bought for him three years ago that he'd never worn, and a pair of grey pants he had planned to cut up, had planned to mutilate, that had been stuck in the back of his closet because they were too small, or so he had thought. 

The wind blowing around him made his eyes water, made his red-striped scarf flutter, the fringes tickling at his face distractingly. He _had_ to get this job, or he'd be broke. He didn't want to live off of his parents anymore in that dingy apartment, now completely run down, old, and broken, like him. He didn't want to try to think he could make something out of his schooling at Yaza Arts. 

He was twenty-something years old. He was a grown man; it was time for him to act like one. 

So he had taken the pins out of his eyebrows, had taken the pin out of his mouth, and had taken all of his earrings out of his ears, he hadn't spiked his hair that morning, but he was still out of place here, where the people kept looking at him strangely, like he was some sort of freak.

Arashi ran a hand through his hair, feeling it's dryness, it's brittleness feeling that it was a bright yellow, bleached from black, that it _should_ be black and it would _help_ if it was black, because everybody around him had black hair right now. Black, straight, and boring. 

He should have known that the dream of becoming an artist, any kind of an artist, was just a dream in the end. It wasn't worth it, it shouldn't have been worth it. In the back of his head, he had always wondered if really, one day, he'd end up working for somebody with straight, black hair and brown eyes. He hated conformity. He knew that conservatives, these right-wing sorts, would always win out. 

Somewhere there, he had known. 

His blonde hair was a little long-- it fell just past his ears, when it wasn't spiked. It kept falling in his face, obscuring his vision, like the wind was making his eyes water. He couldn't see clearly, he didn't want to see clearly. He knew people were looking at him but he didn't want to know how. That was Arashi now, that was him now, cowardly, afraid, and quick to anger, still.

He looked up suddenly, into the eyes of some dark-haired, unsuspecting stranger, and glared, knowing that he was showing the other person what he thought of them, the whole of them, their working type, their type who sat around in offices and in front of computers, rotting their brains with numbers and words without concepts, the kind of person he was going to become. The man gave a start of surprise, and quickly hurried on his way, unnerved. 

Arashi cast his gaze back down to the ground before he could glare at anybody else. Just one person. Just to humiliate himself in front of one person today was enough. He didn't have to do it anymore, not today. Maybe tomorrow he'd say something, maybe tomorrow, if he was rejected from this job interview today, and if he was looking for another job tomorrow, he'd say something to somebody on the streets, something with _what,_ and _are,_ and _you,_ and_ looking,_ and _at_. 

Taking a deep breath, Arashi stilled his erratic heartbeats and looked back up again, a deceptively demure look on his face, at peace and tranquil, even though his eyes still burned, his vision still danced in front of him, scarlet and crimson. 

There it was-- the Sasahi Publishing building, looking for a secretary, a paperboy, a receptionist. Help wanted, apply within. 

__

Damn you. He said, to nobody in particular, as he stuck his hand out in front of him, entering more forcefully through the glass doors than he needed to, ignoring the bewildered expressions of the office workers in the lobby. The white floors gleamed, spotless, the pristine white walls seemed to close in on him, the black granite of the receptionist's counter loomed out from all the insufferable white, ominous and foreboding. The men stood in their black shoes, their grey and navy suits, their pressed shirts, their glasses, the women in their high heels and pantyhose and knee-length skirts and their expressions of placid emptiness. 

__

Damn you all to hell. 

"I don't understand what happened, Miwako." 

"Miwako doesn't either-- it was working out so well, Miwako knows, and these things never happen, never like this, and Miwako doesn't know why!" 

"Calm down, Miwako, tell me the whole thing, from the beginning." 

"It's always like this, but this time, you know how he always thought _Miwako _was the one to go away from him?"

"Yes?" 

"Because of Hiro? Miwako would _never._ But Arashi left Miwako this time. And that's never, never, never happened before." 

"How do you know he won't come back, Miwako? He loves you, doesn't he?" 

"Arashi's always loved Miwako." 

"Then he'll come back." 

"Oh, not now, he won't." Miwako sniffed, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief as she sobbed over the phone. "He doesn't love Miwako as much anymore. There's somebody else he loves, I think, that's why he left me-- that's why he doesn't love--"

"Miwako, please." Isabella sighed, hands twisting, belying anxiety, phone settled between shoulder and ear. "This just happened yesterday, how could you be so sure?" 

"Miwako just _knows._" Came the small, frightened voice over the phone. "I mean, Miwako will learn to let it go, right? Things always happen like this to other people, why not Miwako?"

"My dear--"

"Miwako has seen it in his eyes." She smiled, somewhat bitterly, a little melancholy. "It sounds stupid, Isabella, Miwako knows, but aren't the eyes always tell-tale? They always say things. And Arashi has never been good at hiding." 

"Well, that's true." Isabella said. "But we'll wait and see." 

A silence, stretched so far and so tense and so thick that a knife could have cut through it. 

"Where's Carrie, now?" Miwako's voice came, distant, wondering. 

"Modeling for Shimamoto, still." Isabella's voice was dulled. "And she received an offer from Mischka, I heard." 

"Wow." Miwako's voice was still warbling, stuck in her throat. "She's really gotten famous, hasn't she..."

Of course, this wasn't recent news. Anyone could have read about Yukari's success in the magazines, in the newspapers. 

"I suppose so." 

"And what about George?" 

Isabella paused. 

"I don't know." An aristocratic turn of the head, and Isabella stared out the window, at the clouds hovering in the distance, threatening rain and thunderstorms. "I haven't heard from him in two months." 

Eight-o-clock, and Hamada was leaving the office. Checking to see if her keys were in her pocket, she left the paperwork on her desk and flipped the light switch on her way out, locking the door behind her, and headed towards the parking lot. 

Five years ago, George Koizumi and his gang of tag-alongs had graduated from Yazawa Arts, leaving the school bereft of a dandy, a drag queen, a little girl, and a punk. Not that they didn't already have an abundance of those sorts of liberals, but of course they would consider themselves special. They had placed second at the junior fashion show. 

The dress was pretty enough, she supposed. But really, anybody could have designed it, with the right materials. It was only a gown, eighteenth, early nineteenth century European, France, perhaps. But to have the same color for the entire dress-- it was awkward. No matter which way the light turned, the same hues would be repeated over and over again. 

It was pretty, completely unoriginal. The roses had been a nice touch, though. Genius of Koizumi to think of those at the last minute, although perhaps leaving them white would have provided a better contrast to the somber blue dress. 

The model was pretty, insignificantly pretty. She was not beautiful. 

And where were they now? Oh, she kept in touch with Koizumi's father, or rather, _he_ kept in touch with _her. _But Koizumi, after graduating from Yazawa Arts, had gone to an indiscriminate college of some sort, perhaps pursued his dream of becoming a designer. With his money, he could have gone anywhere. 

Miwako and Arashi, the inseparable two, wouldn't have been able to make it far. Miwako could have been able to use her connections, since her sister was with Happy Berry, which was flourishing very nicely in the indie-fashion world. There was no way Mikako's creations could go mainstream-- catch a celebrity wearing Happy Berry and they'd be the laughing stock of the world. No, Happy Berry's fun and fruitful creations were purely for young people. 

Arashi had always dressed like he would drop out. And where was he now? Freeloading off Miwako? Most likely, although his pride would never allow him to admit it. 

Yamamoto, another rich boy. Pattern designer, that was what he wanted to be. And who knew? In school, being flamboyant drew stares. Out in the real world, it did the same thing, with negative results. To be young, to be carefree, to be ignorant of everything that went around you. Once you hit adulthood, it was different. Hamada wondered if any of those students had realized that yet. 

That was the problem with an arts school. You were allowed to pursue your 'creativity' as long as you liked, but that illusion didn't stay. Mikako's success branded her as one who had risen up and above the others, but was that really true? Did she really break society's concept of normality and common sense with her fashion, with her clothes? No, Mikako was mediocre, a little above mediocre, but mediocre all the same. 

Five years ago, they had graduated. 

Hamada couldn't say she was proud to be a mediocre teacher of a school that flaunted illusions. 

"Miwa, open the door!" Mikako kicked at it with her foot. "You need to eat!" 

"Miwako's not hungry." Came the frail voice from the other side. "Miwako will eat something later." 

"Listen, the least you could do is come out to eat something. You come running to me, and then you lock yourself up. That's not very nice to your host." She tried to infuse some humor into her voice, and failed miserably.

"You're not a host, you're my sister." 

Mikako gave up, and sighed, placing the tray of steaming food down by the door. "Well, if you're hungry, there's food out here." 

A muffled sniff. "Thank you." 

The Happy Berry designer turned on her heel and walked down the hall into the living room, where Tsutomu was reading the paper, and Alice was studiously doing her homework from school at the kitchen table. 

"So?" Tsutomu's voice came from behind the newspaper. "How is she?" 

Mikako plopped down on the sofa opposite him, and crossed her arms. "You _could_ go check up on her yourself, instead of sending me to console her all the time." 

"What?" Tsutomu laughed. "She's _your_ sister." 

Mikako was quiet, and stared at the rug. Alice's pencil scratched away in the background. 

"Why don't you take your shoes off?" 

"What?" Mikako said incredulously. 

"I had to vacuum yesterday." Tsutomu said from behind the newspaper, turning the page. "It was filthy. I don't know, you never take your shoes off after work." 

"At least _I work._" Mikako shot back coolly, kicking her shoes off as she did so. Tsutomu lowered the newspaper and gazed calmly at her.

"What are you implying?" 

"Since when was the last time you were assigned?"

"It's not my fault, all right?" The photographer shook his head. "So as of now, nobody really wants pictures of models and such because it's runway season. And people criticize my landscapes. I'm only good at photographing people." He glared at his wife. "To be fair, _you _were the one who _fired_ me." 

Mikako spluttered indignantly. "I never fired you. You never worked for me in the first place!" 

"The Happy Berry spreads? The magazines? The photo shoots? What were those, then?" 

"_You_ wanted to do those yourself, all right? And the only reason I told you to stop was because I could have somebody as blockheaded as you dictating what to do with _my_ models! You didn't even know what you were _doing_ half the time!" 

"So they're _your_ models, now." Tsutomu said sarcastically. "Who recruited Mitsumi and Ayame for you? They were the ones who brought Happy Berry out of obscurity, after all." 

"The industry is not based around people, it's the minds that run it." She said heatedly, standing up. Tsutomu stood up as well. 

"I don't see how you can say that when you're so obviously a hypocrite." Tsutomu shot back, crossing his arms. "'_Let's hire Yukari.'_" You said. "'_She'll be the new face for our brand._ _And since she's so new to the industry, we'll be able to keep her for a while._' Isn't that what you said? Your dependence on her was almost as obvious as her dependence on you, except she's grown out of you now."

"So she's a poster face for Mischka and Gucci right now, so what?" Mikako spat out. "She still models for us." 

"She's bored with you, Mikako." Tsutomu said. 

Mikako turned away and looked out the window, seething. "Just shut up." 

"All right, then." Tsutomu threw the newspaper down on the coffee table, and marched towards the foyer. "I'll get dinner." 

"We _have_ dinner." Mikako chased after him, followed him into the foyer. "I had to come back and cook it before Alice got him, or did you forget? Where were you all day, anyway? You don't have work, so you could have stayed home and made something for dinner! I'm always the one who has to do everything around the house, why can't _you_ do something as well? I already have to manage the store and you're out there doing god-knows-what in Shinjuku!" 

"So you've followed me?" Tsutomu laughed at her, slipping his shoes on. "Sure you have. Why don't you follow me now? You can leave Alice with Miwako, she won't care." 

"Somebody has to stay home and take care of Alice, because Miwako's not in any right condition to take care of her!" 

"Then hire a babysitter!" 

Mikako's hands balled into fists at her side. "Where do you think we have the money? All our money is being sucked away by _you_. Every time you see a new gadget for your camera you _have_ to get it. Have you ever thought about the family?" 

"So I'm selfish, is that it?" 

Mikako stared at him as he walked out the door, slammed it so hard that the apartment shook. She wondered what the neighbors would think. 

Alice was still seated at the kitchen table, looking after her mother and father in a mute sort of fascination and anxiety. 

"Oh, Alice." Mikako ran over to the girl, and gave her a hug, kissed her on the forehead. "It's all right. Daddy's just being unreasonable right now, that's all. Why don't we start eating dinner? Mommy will help you finish your homework later." 

"I've brought you your tea, young sir." 

"Thank you, Sebastian." 

"It's Ueda." 

"It's 'young miss.'" 

Smile. 

Isabella turned his eyes back to the television screen, where tall, skinny models were strutting down the catwalk with an amazing fervor. They looked like they were giving themselves hip dislocations. 

"We have Gucci's latest chiffon creation, which brings back themes from the early 18th century, as you can see from the elaborate decoration." The female announcer spoke. Isabella gave the dress a bored look. 

"Who's the model? Gucci's got a good catch." The male announcer spoke, and as Isabella watched the screen, his eyes widened just a bit. Of course he was expecting it. It was the reason he was watching. 

"Yukari 'Caroline' Hayasaka." The female announcer said. "From Japan. The most recent of the line of Asian imports. I don't know... what do you think about combining western fashion with eastern faces?" 

"Exotic, as always. Then again, it's nothing new." 

Isabella watched the slim form strut down the catwalk like she was born for it. The makeup was light, her skin seemed to glow. Caroline's hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, hair still as long as ever. Her eyebrows were curved in disdaining arches; her eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, cold, like ice.

Placing her hands on her hips, Caroline turned around at the end of the catwalk, gave a slight quirk of the lips, a smile, to the photographers, who anxiously clicked their cameras from below. In a flurry of blinking lights, it seemed to be in slow motion that Caroline turned around and walked back, further and further away, out of reach. 

Isabella turned the television off after that, sat on the chair, staring at the blank screen. Of course Caroline had been made for the industry. Everything was there for her, it just had to fall into place. And so it had. And had she remembered them? The lowly Paradise Kiss from which she had emerged? Life was ironic, so it would be deemed that she didn't remember, or chose not to. Life was beautifully, cruelly ironic. 

Isabella turned the television back on. 

"I'm backstage with Yukari Hayasaka," a blonde reporter announced, bustled and pushed by the frenzy of models getting ready to go onstage, by the makeup artists running to and fro, by the stage hands who were lugging around the outfits. The camera angle switched so that Yukari was seen, staring into the camera with a sweet smile. "How do you feel?" 

"I feel great!" She gushed energetically, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "That was the first major catwalk I've done, and I'm excited to do it again." 

Isabella sank in his seat, putting down the teacup handle before he could drop it. First major catwalk? Then what had the junior show counted as? 

"We've heard rumors about you and your boyfriend splitting up." The reporter stated, and Yukari blushed appropriately. Isabella found himself listening, whether he had wanted to or not. 

"I don't know about that." Yukari murmured onscreen, demure. "I think we're just taking a break for a while. I'm on tour, you know? And he wants to stay in Japan. But I'll be going back there at the end of this tour, to visit, before I have to take off again!" She laughed. "It's great, to model like this, for such a wonderful designer." 

Isabella brought a hand up to his face and closed his eyes. He didn't know what he wanted to do right now. 

What was George thinking? Of course George knew that Yukari was on show tonight. Their very own little Japanese princess had grown up to become a world-famous model. But the rejection, the hurt, and Isabella could identify. And why had she grown up that way, in a span of five years? Perhaps because she was meant to. Perhaps she was the only one meant to succeed. 

He stood up and walked over to the phone, hands taking the old-fashioned receiver and putting it up to his head, hands shaking as they dialed George's number, his apartment number. Maybe he was there, watching the show. Maybe. 

Isabella got the answering machine again, and hung up. 

"Good job, Hiro." 

"What-- oh." The dark-haired youth turned to his boss and smiled, a little embarrassed. "It's nothing, really." 

"No, no." His boss pressed. "If you hadn't found that rogue paper that Ken wrote about the company it would have been _very_ humiliating. The entire company would have been in shambles. But thanks to you, you found that stupid paper, and the company is saved. Who knew we had a traitor in our midst?"

Hiro pushed his reading glasses further up his nose, and grinned at the boss, who had a tendency to exaggerate. "Ken only made a typo, and I'm just doing my job as the proofreader." 

"Well, I think your internship has gone on long enough." The boss said, scratching his head. "Time for you to be promoted to some real work, eh? No more filing papers for you!" 

Hiro's eyes glimmered with suppressed gratitude, but he forced the excessive thanks down his throat. "Thank you, sir." 

"Don't think anything of it, boy." The boss gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It's nice to see young people working so hard. And you can take a break. It's been a couple hours. Why don't you go to that new cafe that just opened up around the corner?" 

"I'll do that, sir." 

"And could you bring me back an coffee?"

"Regular or decaf?"

"Regular... with extra cream, please." 

"All right, sir." Hiro watched the boss walk towards the elevators, and then stood up, stretched, looked at his watch. So it was already four... he'd been working for what, three hours? Taking his jacket from the coat rack, he shrugged it on and put his cell phone in his pocket. He'd missed one call, from his mother. Probably wanted to know whether or not he was coming home for the weekend. 

After making sure everything was in order on his desk, he walked to the elevators and pressed the 'down' button. Waiting for the elevator to come up, he took out his cell phone and dialed.

"Hello?" Came the voice.

"Hey." Hiro said. "It's me." 

"Oh! Hiro, how are you?"

"Fine." He laughed. "Listen..." He started. "Why don't we go out for dinner tonight?" 

"Why?" 

"I don't know." He laughed. "I'm happy."

"Silly. Did you get promoted? I knew you would."

"You could say that." 

"Good for you." 

"Anyway." The elevator gave a ring as it reached his floor. "I'll pick you up, okay?" 

"All right. What time?" 

"Six-thirty?"

"Sounds good. Love you." 

Hiro smiled, looked down at the floor, then up again, as the elevator doors opened. "Love--"

__

Arashi?!

"What?" Came the voice over the phone, and Hiro blinked as Arashi looked up at him. Except it wasn't Arashi. Not... really. The chains, the rings, gone. His hair wasn't spiked. He actually looked... normal. The blonde head raised and looked at him, the eyes widening in surprise, then dropping back to the ground, brow furrowing.

"No, no..." He told his girlfriend, realizing he had said Arashi's name out loud. "Yeah. Well." He said, hurriedly. "I'll see you later, okay? Bye." He clamped the cell phone shut, walked into the elevator. The ground button had already been pushed, so he leaned back against the wall, taking in Arashi's countenance. The former punk didn't look up at him, but at the elevator buttons. Hiro cleared his throat.

"So." He started. "How've you been?" 

"Good enough," Arashi said, after a slight pause. "And you?" 

"I'm fine." Hiro found that it was easy to smile, even if Arashi was frowning. Then again, he was always like that. "I haven't seen you in a while. What brings you here?" 

The lanky form stiffened, and Hiro immediately regretted his words. 

"I was at an interview." Arashi said slowly, carefully, still reluctant to make eye contact with Hiro. 

"Job interview?" Hiro asked. 

The blonde nodded. 

"How'd it go?" 

Arashi let out an audible growl. "Fucking hell. Mind your own business, _Hiro_." 

So it didn't go well, and Arashi wanted him to fuck off. That was fine with Hiro. He was used to rejection of all sorts... but there was something about Arashi. He looked vulnerable today, and he never looked vulnerable. Why?

"I work here." Hiro said, sticking one hand in his pocket, gripping the cell phone, like a life support. "If you wanted, I could give you a recommendation..."

"You don't even know me anymore." Arashi spat bitterly, "I don't need your fucking pity." 

Hiro shook his head. "I don't know... but I just figured if you needed a job, this would be your chance." He smiled. "I just finished my internship. It's a great opportunity, Arashi, and I could show you how it works. I haven't seen you in a while, and this would be a great way to catch up." Hiro suddenly felt depressed, but kept his voice light. "If you wanted, I mean." 

The elevator gave a ring as it reached the lobby floor, and they stepped out of the elevator, Arashi at a brisk pace, Hiro lagging behind him, and he tried again. "If you want the offer, Arashi, you know where I am." 

They stepped out the doors, Arashi in one direction, Hiro in the other. 

The cafe around the corner, right? His boss had wanted a regular coffee with extra cream. Hiro's own mouth felt dry, but he didn't feel hungry or thirsty or anything otherwise. The sky had been clear this morning, but the clouds had suddenly moved in for the afternoon, a brisk wind ruffling his hair, making it fall in his eyes. He'd pick up the coffee for his boss and then go back to work. There wasn't anything worth taking a break for, after all.

Out of the blue, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Hiro nearly jumped two meters out of his skin. Turning around warily, he followed the hand back up to a familiar face--

Arashi. 

He looked slightly out of breath, his cheeks slightly red, his eyes refusing to meet Hiro's, again. And when Hiro turned around, Arashi withdrew his hand and stuck them in his pockets, and looked like he wanted to spit but politely refrained from doing so. Hiro wanted to laugh, but kept it in. 

"Hiro..." Arashi said, gritting his teeth, looking like he wanted to choke, or cry, or scream with surprised frustration-- or a combination of all three. "Sorry-- sorry." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for rejection. "It's just been a bad day." 

"Yeah." Hiro smiled, and waited, anticipated. When Arashi didn't say anything, he ventured. "The job--"

"The job." 

Hiro laughed, and saw a faint smile appear on Arashi's face, slightly embarrassed. A sudden gust of wind reminded them both how cold they were, standing in the streets. 

"Why don't we go there?" Hiro pointed to the cafe, warm, orange lights coming from behind the windows, an old-fashioned bell above the entrance. "It's new-- just opened a few days ago." 

Arashi looked up at the sky, as if unconcerned. "I don't want to interrupt your work, or anything--"

"No, I'm on break right now." 

The blonde stared at him, a lingering shame in his eyes, blown out of proportion by his pride. "I'm broke." 

Hiro replied without a pause. "My treat. We can talk there, and it's better than talking about it in the street. Besides," he glanced up at the sky, a grin appearing on his face. "I think it's going to rain." 

It seemed like an eternity before Arashi nodded and they made their way across the street, Hiro thinking about the one time when it was raining outside, when they were just kids, and Arashi had dragged him outside to play in the puddles. He didn't want to, and hung back in the alcove while Arashi made fun of him from outside, and they were both laughing as the rain suddenly became a thunderstorm and all hell seemed to be break loose from the sky. And then a few days later, he was the one visiting Arashi with a thermos of chicken soup made by his mother because Arashi was stuck in bed with a cold. 

It was a stupid thing to think about, Hiro thought to himself, since that was so long ago, but the smile on his face persisted. 

__

Notes: So… that's that. ^^;; I'd be very glad if people would R&R, because that means the world to me, and it does sort of… inspire me to write on! ::smacks self:: Yes, I'm being obnoxious, I know. But reviews help the fic move on, and vice versa. But there's no pressure to review, really… ::runs off to a corner:: 

To George and Yukari fans: I'm sorry. I had to do it. ::ducks from the potatoes:: 


	2. 2

****

Roulette

__

Disclaimers: Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Zipper, and Tokyopop.

__

Warnings and rants: (THIS IS A SPEC FIC!) Takes place five years after the manga series, or what is currently the manga-series. OOC characters, OOC situations... then again, this is five years later. Might give way to yuri/yaoi/slash relationships in the future. Keep an open mind, everyone. 

__

Summary: The Paradise Kiss cast, five years later. Life never works out the way you want it to, the way you expect it to, for better or for worse. 

__

Status: 2/? (in progress)

****

Radishface

__

I am so bored, thought Yukari as she twisted one long strand of black hair around her finger, and stared emptily into space. People were hustling and bustling around her, and the model next to her was being attended by makeup artists who were busily applying rouge to her cheeks. Somebody was oiling her legs, and she sighed as the pair of hands rubbed the oil into her legs. Somebody else was doing the nails to her right hand, and behind her, somebody was doing up the last couple ties on her dress. 

__

I am so bored, she thought, as somebody shoved her into the photography room, and somebody arranged her arms on the couch, and her legs over the sides of the couch, and somebody else moved a male model to sit behind her, his hand positioned to encroach on her shoulder, and her own hand lifted to be placed to the back of his neck. He was wearing cologne, and she breathed it in, and thought it was a pleasant smell. And then somebody ran over to powder her face again, while somebody behind her arranged the man's curly hair just _so_ it would fall into his eyes like it should if it was natural. 

__

I am so bored, she thought, as the camera clicked and the light flashed in her eyes and for the moment, all she saw was white. And then she was repositioned, and the man behind her was repositioned, and then the camera went off again and again and again and the man behind the camera told her to part her lips just a little bit, and the way she was acting was _perfect_ for the shoot, don't change it one bit. 

She was _bored,_ she told herself, because that's what this shoot was supposed to be like. Easy boredom, easy nonchalance, to model for this product, these dresses, while the man behind her had his shirt half-buttoned so that his chest was exposed. And then the photographer told her to smile, and she did smile, even if she _was_ bored, because that's what she was supposed to do. 

__

I love this, she thought, and wondered what Miwako was doing, what George was doing, what Hiro was doing, what Arashi was doing. 

And then she realized she didn't care, and tried to keep her smile bored and elegant and not _too_ superior and self-indulgent. 

It was late afternoon and Seiji was checking the classroom, making sure that everything was cleaned and put away before he left the room. It was good that it was the weekend as well-- all the students had taken their supplies home over the weekend and were going to practice for the exams they had next week. He was assigning each of them a partner, and was going to try to convince Hama to come in and act as one of the judges. She'd probably agree, even though her forte was clothing design. 

He heard steps outside and the door to the classroom, and somebody walked in. Seiji smiled when he saw who it was.

"Ah, Mr. Nikaido. Long time no see." He gestured to one of the seats. "Please--" 

"Oh, I don't think I'll be staying long." The older man smiled and adjusted his tie. "I've just stop by." 

"Suit yourself." Seiji shrugged easily, and resumed his rounds, noting that the other man's eyes were following him around the room. "Here to reminisce, Mr. Nikaido?" 

"I've never attended Yazawa." He laughed. "But still. It's nice to stop by and get yelled at by Hamada once in a while for trespassing." He shifted. "Call me Joichi. "Mr. Nikaido" seems like something Johji would address me by." 

"Speaking of which." Seiji turned around to face the grey-haired man. "Do you know where he's been?" He paused to think for a minute. "I suppose he would be touring with Yukari, but I'm not sure." 

Joichi Nikaido gave a wry grin. "Well, they're not together anymore." 

Seiji was much too composed to gawk and stare, so he raised a disbelieving eyebrow instead. "Really," he said slowly, and he couldn't say much else, calm and composed as he was. "Really." 

"It's the truth." Joichi shrugged and sat down, and Seiji sat down next to him. "It's the first time he came to me with any of his problems." 

"What'd he say?" Seiji was curious, one hand running through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. George and his girlfriends did not _split up,_ he told himself. They merely were _separated_ for a while. 

"He said _she_ had dumped him." Joichi pursed his lips. "Interesting, for a change. And then he said that he needed money."

"So you gave it to him?" Seiji asked. 

"So I gave it to him." Joichi shook his head. "Although he's never asked before."

Seiji felt this was going somewhere, but he didn't know where. "What do you want me to do?" He suddenly said, because it felt like the right thing to say. 

"I don't know." Joichi frowned, then forced a wry smile onto his face. "He left, and he hasn't contacted Yukino or myself in the last few weeks."

"So why should you care?" Seiji said, in all seriousness. 

"Of course I should care for him as a father," Joichi said impersonally. "but I can't track him all over the world and sit down and talk to him, can I? I give him the money and he runs away with it." 

"Do you want _me_ to find him?" Seiji asked, almost disbelieving. 

Joichi raised an eyebrow. "I'm not asking anything as base or as stupid as that." He paused, and then stood up. "But if he contacts you, please let me know. Yukino will be worried, even if I'm more indifferent." 

"Oh." Seiji nodded, and stood up as well. "Of course." 

"He's a big boy." Joichi said, not without a trace of laughter. "He can take care of himself." 

"Bad news, young master." Sebastian stuck his head in the door, and Isabella blinked, wearily. 

"Sebastian." He tried, tasting the words, feeling them fall around in his mouth. "It's four in the morning." 

"Your parents called, young master." 

"Oh." Isabella could feel himself wide awake now. "Oh." He gathered himself as he swung his legs off the bed, starting to pace. "Um." He started. "Did they wish to speak to me?" He suddenly realized that his voice had dropped one octave lower, a sort of nervous reflex. And then he realized, how ridiculous he must look, dressed in women's clothing, with a masculine voice, his shaved legs, his long hair, and he turned even whiter, even though nobody could see, since it was dark. 

"No, no, nothing like that." Sebastian said reassuringly. "But they're coming home tomorrow." 

"_Oh._" Isabella felt himself lurch, and went back to sit on the bed before his legs could collapse on him. It was his parent's house, of course, why shouldn't they come home to it?

"They were at the airport when they called." Sebastian said. "They're taking a flight home." 

"So when will they be back?" Isabella struggled to keep the worry out of his voice. "I know it's tomorrow, but what time?" 

"They're in Australia right now." Sebastian said quietly. "You can expect them in the morning sometime, I think." 

"I see then." Isabella put his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples. "Sebastian, can you prepare my breakfast for me?" 

The butler's eyes widened a little. "But young master, it's only four in the morning!" 

Isabella smiled blearily. "I don't think I can sleep now." 

"All right, then." Sebastian withdrew from the doorway, and shut the door behind him. 

Isabella stared out the window and then looked at his hands, these girlish hands that had never done an ounce of work in his life, the hands that had occasionally bled because of a needle in the wrong direction, but never anything else. And he contemplated his wrists, and wondered what it would feel like if he cut them. Wouldn't it hurt, though? It'd be a better alternative to take sleeping pills. 

But Isabella's resolve strengthened, and he stood up, feeling the blood rush out of his head, and stood there shaking for a moment, before heading to his closet. 

__

Your parents. Isabella said to himself, like a mantra. _Your parents, your parents, your parents, your parents, they're coming home._

It wasn't _my parents_. It was _your parents._

__

I know. Some part of him whispered tiredly. _Them._

He could tell he was a little unstable sometimes, he was a little crazy. He shouldn't care, he shouldn't care what _they_ thought because this was _him,_ the real _him,_ and then he was doubting himself. But it was his parents, the ones who had always left him whenever he wanted them home, the ones who didn't care about the estate, didn't care about their reputations, his mother slept with different men, his father slept with different women, and they went back to each other without any questions. And he was their son, their daughter, and their sexless offspring. 

He turned the light on in the bathroom and looked at the counters, cluttered with cosmetics and perfumes and he took a shoebox out of his closet and started placing them all away, the perfumes on this side and the cosmetics in the next, and then he put the box back in the closet, up on the highest shelf of his shoe collection. 

And then he found the scissors, looked at it when the metal gleamed harshly in the light, looked at the points on the tips of the scissors, and he knew they weren't very sharp, because they were dull from not being used. And then he held the scissors to his hair, to his curls, and then with a resounding _snip_ the first batch fell to the floor. 

His hands were shaking as he did it, and he forced himself to keep still, because one wrong movement and then he'd be left with an uneven cut. 

He shouldn't care, he told himself. But he did. 

And then clumps of purple-dyed hair were lying on the marble of his bathroom floor, and he took a trash bag, and started sweeping. 

He should take a shower, he thought. Stray purple hairs were on his shoulders, he should wash them off. And he stepped into the shower, and only used soap, because the rest of his shampoos and soaps and body wash items smelled like flowers and fruits and more flowers. 

He ignored his body as he washed, because that was what he always did. He distanced himself from this act of cleaning, because that would mean that he was male. 

He toweled himself dry, didn't want to look at himself in the mirror. His hair color would have to stay. He didn't have the heart to dye it. 

Wrapped in a towel, he walked over to the closet, flipped the light on, let the sight of dresses and dresses and dresses meet his eyes and he scowled, walking straight over to the back of his closet, where a casual suit bought from years ago stared him in the face, taunting him. And he took it out of the wrapping, and smelled the new smell of clothing, only it was old now, because he had never worn it. First went on the dress shirt, and he buttoned it up, leaving the buttons at the top open. And then went on the trousers, and he stepped into them, and they were unfamiliar, and rough, and then they became familiar to him, and they became reality.

He put the jacket on over that, and then stepped out of the closet. There was a key to the closet, he knew, somewhere in his jewelry box. And he opened it up and took the key out and locked the closet door, and then he locked the jewelry box, and shoved the keys into his trouser pockets. 

Looking in the mirror, he managed a smile. The man there smiled back at him. 

"Hello." His voice faltered. 

"Yamamoto." 

He walked out of his room and locked the door behind him, and as he went down the stairs, he could feel his posture slouching, and he willed it even more so. He put a scowl on his face and he lowered his eyebrows and he shoved his hands into his pockets, and let the foreign feeling wash over him. It was like he was a little boy again, trying on a dress for the first time, except this time it was the other way around. 

Sebastian had just brought out the eggs and toast and he noticed at Yamamoto, and his eyes widened, but he didn't say anything. 

Alice was asleep when Miwako went into her room. There was a Happy Berry show today in the morning, and Mikako had left very early to go prepare and set up. Tsutomu had not come back since the day he had left the house, and Miwako absently wondered where he was. 

Miwako took a seat at Alice's desk, sighing, watching the moon outside the window. It was slightly comforting, she thought, to hear Alice's steady breathing in the background while her own heartbeat was erratic and she had trouble concentrating on what she was supposed to do. And Arashi was gone, she thought, and convinced herself it was only a side thought. 

But no, it wasn't. Miwako thought. It wasn't. And even after all these years, she had been talking to Hiro, and never told him the whole truth, about how Arashi was becoming further and further estranged, and Hiro had thought everything was all right, and what would happen when Hiro called Miwako the next time, what would she tell him? That Arashi had left? That Arashi was gone? It wasn't as if she could have them both like she had used to. But if she had chosen Hiro, then at least Hiro would have stayed with her, because he was that sort of person. His loyalties didn't falter. But she had rejected him, and he would not come back. 

Arashi had rejected her, after all these years. It had been wonderful, that feeling of loving and being loved, and the ignorance that something behind Arashi's eyes wasn't right, that sometimes he didn't want to do it, and he did it anyway with her, and she felt selfish. If she had noticed sooner, they could have talked about it, she could have done something. And yet part of her whispered brokenly that there was nothing she could have done in the first place. 

Arashi was the type of person who could never be satisfied, who always had to break the boundaries, establish new rules, and then break them again. Once he had left something behind, he wouldn't go back to it. 

Miwako wondered what she would tell Hiro, when they talked again. 

"I just can't believe he ran away like that." Yukino muttered as she took the bottle and tipped it back so that the contents spilled into her mouth, and sides of the stuff ran down her face, and Shimamoto grimaced. 

"You've got wine all over your face." She said. 

The two women were crouched on the floor, and it was in the evening. Shimamoto had just gotten back from a press conference only to find five messages on her cell phone, all of them from Yukino. And sighing to herself, she had dragged herself to Yukino's apartment, only to find the lady already intoxicated and two bottles completely empty. 

"I mean, doesn't he know it's my birthday in three days?" She was blubbering to herself now, and Shimamoto felt like making a graceful exit and coming back in two hours or so to make sure that Yukino hadn't thrown up all over the carpet. But the light-haired woman could hold her alcohol very well, unlike herself. 

"Just because he broke up with that _girl_," Yukino scowled into the bottle. "Doesn't mean he has to go sulk all over Europe somewhere." 

"Well, a little respite will be good for him." Shimamoto replied sarcastically.. "It's been too long since he's repressed his polygamous desires." 

"That's not... good." Yukino yawned, and then gulped some more of the stuff down. "He's acting like his damn... father." 

"Maybe with a little mother's love," Shimamoto found herself suggesting, "he could have turned out a little better." 

Yukino was glaring at Shimamoto but her gaze didn't focus very long before she threw herself on the couch, setting the bottle down on the floor. "Well, anyways." She yawned again, stretching. "I guess I'll have to wait for him." 

"He's not coming back _tonight,_ you know." Shimamoto drawled sarcastically, and stood up. 

"Yeah, but." Yukino said, and fell asleep, her mouth slightly open. 

Shimamoto stared at the woman for a while before covering Yukino's frail form with her jacket. Maybe she'd stay a little while longer.

"Hiro." Natsukawa said. "Hi." 

"Hello." Hiro called. "I'm in the kitchen." 

She could smell tempura frying, and wondered why Hiro was cooking. Oh, she knew he _could_ cook, but he never did. 

"Oh." She said, as she approached the kitchen, spying a blonde-haired youth cutting green onions precariously. She looked to Hiro. "And he is...?" 

The blonde looked up at her and then looked to Hiro, who was stirring something in a pot. 

"Arashi. I invited him over for dinner," He said, pointing absently, and turned around with a smile on his face. "Arashi, this is Natsukawa, my girlfriend." 

She crossed her arms and pretended to look put out. "And just that?" 

Hiro shrugged good-naturedly. 

"Well, I guess the Italian I brought back home has to go to waste, then." She swung a take-out bag by her side, and Hiro's eyes widened when he saw it. 

"I didn't know--" 

"No, it's okay." She laughed, setting it down on the counter. "We can eat it tomorrow, or something." 

"Yeah." Hiro grinned. "It shouldn't spoil too quickly, with all those preservatives." 

She saw Arashi turn slightly to Hiro, almost apprehensive. 

"Should I go, then?" He suddenly seemed on his guard, for some reason. She wondered if it was because of her. 

"No!" Hiro laughed. "You don't have to, unless you really want to. I mean, I haven't seen you for years, now, and you've never been as amiable as you have now." 

Natsukawa wanted to laugh, but she refrained from doing so. "Anyway, Hiro." She dropped her voice a little, just for him. "Next week." 

"It's our sixth month, I know." He smiled, and saw Arashi stiffen, out of the corner of his eye. "How's Miwako?" He asked, and continued. "If I remember correctly, I think next _month_ you'll have been going out for..." 

She saw Arashi visibly pale, and then turn red, and he didn't answer the question. Hiro looked adorably confused for a moment. 

"Oh." Hiro said, and reached out for Arashi's shoulder. "Did something happen?" 

"Yes, something _happened._" Arashi said angrily, his eyes trained on the ground, and he shrugged Hiro's hand off his shoulder. 

Hiro didn't ask anything more afterwards, and they had dinner in uncomfortable silence, with Natsukawa occasionally speaking now and then, asking questions of her guest even though he only answered in the most brief of ways. Arashi murmured his thanks after finishing, and excused himself and said he had to go. 

"Where?" Hiro had stood up, and Natsukawa suddenly felt annoyed with him. 

Arashi was putting on his jacket, and didn't meet Hiro's eyes. "I don't know." He murmured, under his breath. 

"One of those poetic ones, aren't you?" Natsukawa said before she could help it. "Looking for yourself in the dark of the night?" 

Hiro gave her a look of disbelief, and she glared back. If he didn't learn how to take care of freeloaders now, he never would. She didn't give a damn if he knew him from years ago. Besides, it _was_ supposed to be their special evening. He must have forgotten. 

Arashi only stared back at her and gave her a weary smile. "Maybe." 

She sat back down. "Well, good luck." 

Arashi laughed and opened the door. "Thanks for the dinner, Hiro."

See? Natsukawa said to herself. He _is_ a freeloader. 

"I'll make it up to you." Arashi said, and beside her, Hiro nodded mutely, staring after the blonde with his mouth turned in a slight frown. 

The door closed, and she rolled her eyes. "Well, isn't _he_ polite." 

"He's a friend." Hiro said defensively, picking at the sukiyaki with his chopsticks. "And I haven't seen him for a while, so I thought that I'd--." 

"Well, good for you." She muttered, cutting him short, and ignored the sharp look he gave her. Silly boy, she thought to herself. Entirely too trusting and too naive. 

"George." She said, turning over in the bed. "George, what's wrong?" Her voice was imploring, whiny, and annoying. 

He didn't say anything. 

"George." She tried again. 

He kept silent.

"You've been like this all night!" She thumped her head back against the pillow, and groaned. "We got halfway through sex and then you stopped, you bastard. How do you think _I_ feel?" 

"It's only twelve." He found himself saying. "You can still go find someone else, if you want to. The club doesn't close until four." 

He felt a half-hearted slap at his shoulder, and then she settled back. "Are you like this because of _her?_" She asked, trying to keep her voice light, but unable to keep the malice and annoyance away. "Get over it, George. She's a bitch to leave you like that." 

"And you wouldn't?" 

He could just _feel_ her eyes widen. "Of course not!" She spluttered indignantly. "But then again, I don't even _have_ you. You're just sort of... sort of _there_." 

"Like a sick fuck toy." 

"Yeah, say whatever you want." She muttered, pressing up against him, bringing her arms around his chest. He didn't flinch. "You're not getting rid of me that easily." 

"You still want to?" 

"Do you_?_" She shot back, and he shook his head. "No, I didn't think so. Why ask?"

"I can still do it, you know." 

"But you won't be thinking of _me,_ will you." She laughed bitterly. "No, all you'll be thinking about is all that long, black hair, and long legs, and skinny, skinny, skinny." 

"You're skinny, too." He said blandly. 

"I knew you would say that." She whispered into the juncture where his neck met his shoulder. "Because I know you. Or at least I think I do." 

"I've known you longer than I knew her." 

"Well, yeah. We went to school together." She paused. "Whatever made you think you could trust her with it?" 

"With what?" He could feel the heat emanating off of her, like waves. 

"I dunno. With you, I guess. You weren't so loose before." 

"I was always loose. You knew that." 

"With your _heart,_ I mean." 

He felt himself go still. "What made you think I loved her?" 

She shrugged. "I didn't necessarily mean that I think you loved her. But you trusted her, didn't you?" 

"I trusted a lot of people." 

He felt her lips press against his shoulder, felt them move when she spoke. 

"So would you let Arashi do this, too?" 

"Do what?" He felt a smile coming on, memories. He wanted to laugh, but no, that would mean that he was happy, and he was far from happy right now. 

"Get in bed with you." She murmured, a joking tone threading through her voice. Of course she wasn't serious. 

He kept a straight face. "If he wanted to." 

"But wouldn't the pins in his mouth hurt?"

"If he went down on me? I guess so." 

"Ow." She winced. "And how about... what was her name? Miwako?" 

"Maybe." 

She laughed. "You have the makings of a pedophile, George." 

He let himself smile a little, if only for her satisfaction. "You think?" 

"How about Hama?" 

His eyes widened slightly, incredulously. "She would beat the shit out of me afterwards." 

She kept laughing. "You think?" 

They were quiet for a few moments, and the air conditioning automatically turned on, the humming sound coursing through the hotel room. The Eiffel Tower gleamed in the distance, the city lights glimmered. It wasn't his idea to come to Paris, but it was hers. She had invited him. 

If he tried hard enough, he could pretend it was Tokyo.

"So... what about Isabella? Or Yamamoto. Whoever he wants to be." 

George's eyes darkened, although she didn't notice this. 

"I don't know." He said, simply. 

She looked up at him, amused. "What, you can't fuck a transvestite?" 

He flinched at the term, as if it had been applied to him, as if he had been insulted to his face. "No." 

"Than why?" 

"Because I've know Isabella the longest." 

He could feel her blinking, her eyelashes fluttering against his shoulder. "What?" 

"Never mind." He sighed, pushed the image away. "Want to?" He turned to face her. 

"Want to what?" She pursed her lips innocently, looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. 

"You know what, Kaori." 

"Sure." She grinned, and he pulled the covers up. 

Please R&R! Your comments keep me writing this fic. ^___^ I live off them… so … ::coughcoughhinthint:: the more reviews I get, the better I do! It's horrible for my ego, I know, but comments and such really inspire me. Wow, I'm subtle, aren't I? 

C&C! O_O 


	3. 3

****

Roulette

__

Disclaimers: Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Zipper, and Tokyopop.

__

Warnings and rants: (THIS IS A SPEC FIC!) Takes place five years after the manga series, or what is currently the manga-series. OOC characters, OOC situations... then again, this is five years later. Might give way to yuri/yaoi/slash relationships in the future. Keep an open mind, everyone. 

__

Summary: The Paradise Kiss cast, five years later. Life never works out the way you want it to, the way you expect it to, for better or for worse. 

__

Status: 3/? (in progress)

****

Radishface

"Miss Hayasaka?" 

Yukari turned to look at her personal secretary... driver... butler... whatever the hell he was. He was a bookish, slightly shorter than her, an American with mousy brown hair and ordinary brown eyes. He could dress, though, so she gave him that much. She turned back around and temporarily forgot he existed-- after all, there was something fascinating in this magazine she was reading now. Maybe he'd just shut up. His Japanese wasn't great, but it was decent. He spoke better Japanese than she did English, at any rate. Her annoying accent still persisted, even as she practiced saying her 'ARRRRrrrrrs' in front of the mirror every night, and reminded herself day in and day out that English words ended with consonant sounds, not vowel sounds. She could still understand it fairly well, though.

"Miss Hayasaka?" He repeated, and Yukari shrugged, flipping the magazine shut.

"What, Robbie?" It took a conscious effort not to say _wa-tu_.

The skinny, pale American had a phone in his hand, and his pale face looked excited. "It's Jimmy Choo on line one... and there's somebody from Vera Wang is on line two. And then you got a call this morning at eleven from the representative at Nicole Farhi." 

Yukari wanted nothing more than to say a hardy _fuck you_ to anybody else who tried to interrupt her Sunday. _I mean._ She thought, gazing out her bay window, out at the ocean. _It's a beautiful day-- a little cold, but still beautiful. And I've got a private beach. And mother's in Tokyo, and Suguru's going to be going on a scholarship program to Waseda University, even though mother wants him to accept the program at Cambridge. He hasn't even frickin' reached puberty yet. _

"Yeah?" Yukari rose up and stretched, curling her toes into the sheepskin rug. There was a runway tonight, winter fashions for Helmut Lang and Victoria's Secret (_what?? _she remembered thinking. _WHAT??_). She had been invited to go. Maybe she should keep Jimmy Choo on the phone and make excuses that way. _Oh, I couldn't attend the runway show because I was talking to Jimmy Choo. Yeah, you know, Jimmy Choo?_ _The one with the shoes and the purses? He wants to use me in his new campaign. Not like he doesn't have a bias for Asians already. Yeah, I know his last advertising run were nude shots, but my tits are perky enough, I guess. Not like I'm going to show them, anyway. What am I supposed to do? He's Jimmy Choo._

Yukari reluctantly accepted the phone from Robbie, eyeing the doorway to her penthouse critically-- her Manolos were lying in a heap. Gesturing for him to go arrange them, she turned around and walked to her balcony door and opened it, letting in a waft of ocean air. Yes, southern California. Not a bad place to be, but Hawaii was better. Too bad her real estate agent couldn't procure that nice 10-acre plot of island...

"Caroline Hayasaka speaking." 

"Miss Hayasaka." A voice, sounding somewhat bored, somewhat pleased. "I'm Jimmy Choo's representative."

"Yeah, well." She said, because it seemed like a good thing to say. _Be still, my heart. You will not make a fool out of yourself just yet. Jimmy Choo, Jimmy Choo. Remember what Shimamoto told you. You're the most beautiful woman in the world._

"Miss Hayasaka?" The voice came over the phone, and she realized she had been silent for a while. 

"Yes." She said, and her voice was cool again, it was cold, it was like ice, aloof, haughty, and she reminded herself, she loved it like that. That was what success sounded like.

"Mr. Koizumi," his secretary executed a half-bow as he poked his head through the door to the man's office. "Should I just set the bills on your desk, sir?" 

"Go ahead, Hanzo." Joichi smiled, heard the rustle of paper as his secretary approached. 

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" Hanzo asked. 

"No." Joichi said. "Nothing I can think of." 

"I'll be taking my lunch break, then." Hanzo said, and looked at his watch. "I'll see you in an hour, sir." 

"I'll leave the assignment for you on your desk." Joichi said. "I've got a meeting to go to, so by the time you're be back, I'll be gone."

"Should I lock the door when I leave for the evening, sir?"

"No, that'll be all right." Joichi said. "The meeting shouldn't take too long." 

"Right, sir." Hanzo turned to leave. "I'll see you, sir." 

"Have a good lunch." 

"Thank you, sir." 

The door closed, and Joichi looked at the bills. Two of them were from credit card companies-one was Sakura's-he tucked the envelope away affectionately into the drawer of his desk, and made a note to inform her of it later. Perhaps the time had come to discard her-Sakura was a bit too young for his tastes, anyway.

The next was George's credit card, and Joichi raised an eyebrow. George had always prided himself on not using his father's money to do _anything_. What a change, what a change. Certainly there would be a reason for this. Joichi opened the envelope and smiled. 

Chanel perfume, a Christian Dior handbag, and a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. He could only wonder who George's new girlfriend was, if it wasn't that black-haired model. Joichi Koizumi gave a superior smile and decided to keep Sakura a bit longer.

"Hey, George." Kaori said, as she stretched in the bed, letting out a yawn. "G'morning." 

George was propped up against the pillows next to her, absently flipping through television channels, hesitating for a minute on the remote control when he saw a model turn and pivot at the end of a runway. No, it wasn't Yukari. It was a model for Gianfranco Ferre. He exhaled, and then changed the channel. 

"Where should we go today?" Kaori burbled, her speech smothered as she rolled on her pillow, and then popped out of bed dramatically, stretching again. George's eyes averted from the television for a minute as he surveyed the line of her back, the curve of her butt. 

"Put some clothes on first, and then we'll decide." He said, and turned the television off. She glared at him and threw a pillow at him. He caught it with a bemused expression on her face. "You have to admit, that's not very decent." 

"And who's going to walk in on us?" She said, folding her arms across her chest. "It's not like you're dressed, either." 

"At least I'm under the sheets." He intoned solemnly. 

"Bastard." She said. "Well, I'm going to take a shower, then." She looked pointedly at him, and ran a hand through her hair, grimacing. "We both need a shower after last night." 

"I don't." George said, and lay back down on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I always smell like roses." 

"Because you're such a fag, that's why." She walked over to him and kissed his forehead. "George." 

"What?" He said, not opening his eyes. He felt Kaori pinch his nipple, and gave a start. 

"Lots of other girls would be offended by this comfort-sex thing." She stated, and stared at him. He opened his eyes a crack. Her breasts were dangling in his face, and he playfully bit at them. She jumped back just in time, and glared at him, but he could tell she was smiling. 

"No, seriously." She said, and sat on the foot of the bed, sighing. "I mean, I don't care, really. You know I'm meeting Mersealt tomorrow, anyway." 

George raised an eyebrow. "Really? Kaori, you two-timing bitch." 

"Shut up." She aimed to smack his groin through the sheets, and he twisted away just before she could strike. "I just want you to be happy, okay? Get over her, George." 

"I _am_ over her." He told her, and sat up in bed, looked at her full in the face so she would know. "I'm over Yukari." 

They looked at each other like that for a minute, and then Kaori huffed and broke the gaze. "Yeah, right." She laughed. "Behind your cool exterior lies the heart of a broken man." 

"You wound me." George said. 

"That's my purpose." Kaori shrugged, and stood up. "But seriously. The least you could do for me after all I've done for _you_ is to take me out to the Pompidou Museum or the Louvre. That's all I'm asking from you. I have to leave in a three days, and we've barely done _any _sightseeing." 

"You can always come back to Paris." George stated, and turned on the television again. Loud music blared, and an advertisement for French coffee came on the air. "I mean, you _live_ here, and you're telling me you haven't gone to the Louvre or the Orsay- ." 

"-Pompidou," she corrected. "And besides, I have to leave for that meeting in Italy-did I mention Dolce and Gabanna are going to be there? - I would extend that invitation to you, but I'm already going with Mersealt." 

"I think I'd like him." 

"Put on a floor show for him, then." Kaori shrugged. "He's bisexual, too. I'm sure he'll appreciate it." 

George stared at her for a minute. "You _are_ a fag hag." 

"Half of one." She said. "Bi-hag. It doesn't have the same ring." 

"Or the same tone." George agreed. 

"But I need to treat you and take you out like a good friend and a good hostess before you leave." Kaori said, and headed to the bathroom. "So we're going to the museums today." 

"Then why did you ask me to take _you?_" George called after her. 

"Because it's customary for the man to take the woman out somewhere. It doesn't say anywhere she can't ask." 

"And what makes you think I'm leaving?" George said, and Kaori stuck her head out the bathroom door and smiled wistfully at him. 

"You're flighty like that." She said. "You're _really_ flaky when you're not serious about things. When things get boring, you're going to leave. And when I'm gone, you're going to find yourself a nice fuck at the Moulin Rouge and move to his or her apartment. You're going to waste away in front of the television and watch runway shows and old _Palme D'Or_ movies until your brain rots from independent-film overload. Your fashion career is a mess, George Koizumi. I guess I beat you in the end, huh?" 

He stared at her and anything he could have said was stuck in his throat. A minute, an hour, a year passed between them as they stared at each other. 

"Fuck you, Kaori." George finally croaked. 

She grinned at him, but he could hear the anger and frustration in her voice. "It's your _fucking_ life, George, and you ruined it." 

She disappeared into the bathroom, and he slipped in there after a few minutes. The shower compartment was steamed up, and she was humming something to herself. He first brushed his teeth, and then went over to the bathtub and turned the water on. He got in and held his head under the faucet to wash his hair, forcing himself not to blink when the soap got in his eye. 

She was still in the shower when he got out of the bathtub, and he slipped on a pair of slacks and a blue dress shirt, feeling subdued. He went downstairs to the café of the hotel and bought four éclairs and a carton of orange juice, and headed back up in the elevator with the paper. 

Kaori was buzzing around the room like nothing had happened between them, and had three shirts out on the bed. She stood in her underwear, contemplating which one to wear. George set the éclairs and the orange juice on the table and walked over, smelling the Chanel No. 5 perfume he had bought for her a few days ago. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, a flash of anger still in her eyes before it suddenly dispelled and she was the old bubbly and sunny Kaori of comfort sex. 

"Which one, George?" She said, putting a pout on her face and squinting at the three shirts. "I think the lace shirt matches the skirt, but then it won't go with the Manolos that you gave me, and the Christian Dior purse…"

Winter was well on its way, Hiro thought, as he gazed out the window of his boss's office. The skies today were dark, clouds hanging overhead, the air outside had bit at his face even as summer's humidity persisted, and he had been torn between taking off his scarf and leaving it on. 

The subways were crowded in the morning, and he regretted not being able to acquire a parking space within his apartment complex. Natsukawa drove to work, and even though she was late to work everyday, she still insisted on driving. Natsukawa's apartment was smaller than Hiro's, but since her car was her second home, Hiro supposed that the situation worked out somehow. Natsukawa's parents had presented her with a Mercedes-Benz after she got into Waseda University, and Hiro had gone to her family's house to celebrate. Hiro had gotten into Tokyo University, and was still studying as he paid for his tuition through this internship. Natsukawa's family was willing to pay her tuition, but Hiro's parents had been adamant in that he pay for his own college education. 

It built character, Hiro thought. Arashi had moved into his apartment as soon as his liberal parents decided that was a good idea. Then again, Arashi was a rebel at heart, and moving out of the house seemed like something he would have loved to accomplish at an early age.

Eleven in the morning, and the skies still hadn't cleared of their morning fog yet. His boss commented on his good work and then dismissed him, telling him to finish filing and indexing the binders for the Asahi archives. Hiro sighed-he didn't mind the brainless secretarial work, but he had an exam this coming weekend, and desperately needed the time to study. Hiro decided to get as much filing done today as possible, and leave tomorrow's options open. With this in mind, he headed off to his cubicle and turned on the computer just as his cell phone rang. 

"Hiroyuki speaking." 

The voice on the other line was slightly hesitant. "Hey, Hiro." 

Hiro's eyes widened and he held the phone closer to his ear. "Arashi?" 

"Yeah, it's me." His voice was blurred, and Hiro could make out the sounds of cars honking, people talking, the wind blowing. 

"Where are you?" Hiro asked. 

"Oh, I'm-" There was a buzz of static, and Hiro was afraid the connection was lost. "I'm on a public phone." 

"Outside?" 

"I'm in Shinjuku right now." Arashi's voice said, indistinct. 

"Pity." Hiro said, and balanced the phone between his shoulder and his ear-an exceptional feat, since the cell phone was so thin. "The trains must have been crowded this morning." He paused. "What are you doing in Shinjuku?" 

Arashi sighed. "Job options." 

Hiro straightened. "If you're still interested, you know, I could just talk to my boss and-"

"No, that's fine." Arashi's voice held a note of impatience, and Hiro smiled when he heard it. "I'll manage on my own." 

"If you say so." Hiro grinned. 

There was a pause, almost awkward, almost comfortable. Hiro could hear the horns honking in the background, could imagine Arashi standing there, a scarf whipping around his head. Hiro wondered if Arashi had spiked his hair. 

"I was wondering if you'd like to go out for lunch. If you're free, of course." 

Hiro gave a start, and scratched his head, glancing about him for his briefcase. "Actually, Arashi-"

"Yeah, I know you're busy." Arashi said hurriedly, and Hiro could almost kick himself. "I shouldn't have asked." 

"No, just that-" Hiro struggled with his briefcase, and opened it, papers almost spilling out over the cubicle floor. He set the briefcase down and took the phone into his hand. "I've got a lot of work to do today. Normally-"

"Then I'll just let you get back to work." Arashi's voice was light. "Have fun, Hiro."

"No, I mean--damn." Hiro said, and stared at the phone in annoyance. He'd hung up. "Dammit Arashi, it wouldn't hurt you to hear the whole story for once." He smiled fondly and put the phone away. _He's not angry anymore._ He thought. _He's not mad at me. It's just like it used to be, only we're more estranged. But he's not angry at me anymore._

What surprised him was how happy he was about it. 

Shaking the thoughts away, Hiro pulled the files out of his briefcase. He left the phone by his side just in case it rang again. He didn't think it would, but he'd be going straight to Shinjuku once he was done for the day.

What was it that Miwako had said? 

Yamamoto stood outside in the courtyard, sipping a glass of lemonade. His parents had arrived home a few days ago, and his father had brought a book for him, supposedly to mock him, but he was enjoying it, nonetheless. And the expression on his father's face at his _son's_ sudden change in clothing preferences had left him gaping as Yamamoto made a graceful exit upstairs. His mother had been harboring a look of suspicion on her face, but had masked it well.

Not well enough, Yamamoto thought. _Middlesex,_ he read to himself, looking at the cover of his book. 

He closed the book suddenly, nearly upsetting his glass of lemonade. He had talked to Miwako as well, had met her at a café in Ginza and had bought Miwako her favorite parfait, strawberry, vanilla wafers, and raspberry filling, with whipped cream and sprinkles on top. 

__

Oh. Isabella? She had said. Well, of course she had said that. She had never seen him without his dresses and his hats and his hair rolled up in that absurd Western Europe, Victorian style. Her face had been rather blank, and Yamamoto supposed that was because of her ongoing trauma about her breakup with Arashi and Yamamoto's sudden… change in appearance. He supposed he should have waited to tell her that he was going to be a man again, if it could really be called that. 

__

Miwako, sit. He had said. _I know what you're thinking. _

__

Miwako loves this parfait. She had said, her facial expression careful. _Thank you, Isabella._

__

It's Yamamoto now. He said. 

Yamamoto. She had said, sweetly, her voice as sweet as her parfait, and Yamamoto had felt his stomach turn at the tone of her voice. 

__

Yes. He had said. 

Well then, Yama. She said, her voice quavering. _Can I call you that for short?_

__

It's what George used to call me. He had said, a pang of something shooting through his heart as he remembered back then, fourth grade, his first dress.

__

Is this because your parents are home? She asked, eating her parfait, spoon dipping into the ice cream. _Are you doing this for them?_

__

Well. He had said, and she hadn't waited for him to finish, she had looked up, her face lined with disappointment, resentment, and resignation. 

__

Miwako should listen to Mikako more often. She said, and seemed on the verge of tears. _Men run away from everything. They all run away, eventually. You and Arashi, running away like this. And Miwako had thought you were different, Miwako had thought he was different._

She had started crying, silent tears down her face, and he had to take her home, and the other customers in the café had stared after them, wondering what was wrong. 

She had apologized when they were in front of her house, even though she had stopped crying long before that, when they were switching trains in the subway, and she had clung to his hand like a lost child, staying close to him, and he had felt relieved, because to Miwako, he was still the same Isabella, even if he didn't want to be. And then she had said she would call him later, and she'd make it up to him. He had said that he knew what she was going through, and that he was sorry that he had decided to show her this way. She had sniffled, had murmured a goodbye, and had disappeared into the house. 

__

Am I running away? Yamamoto thought, and ran his finger along the edge of the spine of the book, words tracing over the letters, M, I, D, D, L, E. 

No, because George was the first one to run away. George had been the first one to leave after Yukari had gotten promoted in the Shimamoto firm, after the first runway show, after Yukari's fifth photo shoot with Happy Berry, after Yukari had been scouted by a representative from Hermes who had recommended her to a position on the Christian Dior modeling team. George was the one who _left._

And wasn't Yamamoto a boy before George had come along? Wasn't Yamamoto a nice, well-adjusted boy without parents, a well-adjusted boy who wanted to wear a skirt and wanted to grow his hair longer? But he was happy being a boy, all the same, even though sometimes, he felt out of place, but that was normal, because everybody felt out of place once in a while. 

And then George had come and became friends with him, and had discovered Yamamoto's secret the one day George's mother had taken them out for ice cream and George had caught him looking at dresses in a shop window with a mystified look on his face. 

__

Do you like dresses, Yamamoto? And George had said it in the most precocious and unassuming way, a way that could be interpreted as liking dresses in general and not liking them in a way that one would want to _wear_ them. 

__

Yes. Yamamoto had unwisely replied. _I love them. There's so much variety._

__

Variety? George had asked, and then they had not sounded like they were in elementary school.

__

Variety. Yamamoto had said. _You see, guys are always wearing pants. It's always pants for the guys, and all pants look the same. And girls get to wear dresses, and there are so many different dresses._

George had nodded, had acted like he understood. And then Yamamoto had said it,

__

I wish I could wear a dress.

George had raised his eyebrow and had laughed a bit, and Yamamoto had turned bright red, his mind had railed at him for letting that slip, he was a _boy,_ why would he want to wear a _dress?_

__

They wear dress-like clothes in Scotland. George had said, and the mood had lightened unexpectedly, and Yamamoto had thanked George's amazing capability for saying the right things at the right time and saving Yamamoto from further embarrassment from himself. 

__

Those are kilts, Yamamoto had said, laughing with George. _And they don't count._

The incident wasn't mentioned again, but Yamamoto knew George had remembered it, otherwise how would he have known Yamamoto's birthday wasn't in the spring, but gave him a present anyway? And it was in the spring, when Yamamoto received his first dress, that Yamamoto became Isabella, and Isabella was born. His father and mother had another child, a girl, and they didn't know about it.

But he wasn't running away, by becoming Yamamoto again. He was only letting Yamamoto live again, after killing him in the spring, he was only letting Yamamoto live to what Yamamoto might have been, if George had not killed him and put Isabella in his place. 

Who said he wasn't just George's plaything when he was Isabella? Who could say that he wasn't just George's experiment to put a boy in a dress, to see what he looked like? It could have been a long-term scheme to humiliate him, to ensure that George knew that he could control and manipulate Yamamoto, because Yamamoto looked up to and venerated and adored and _loved_ George.

But Yamamoto knew that George wouldn't do that, wouldn't humiliate him like that. Yamamoto knew that George was the first one who saw who he really was, who he could really be. And when George went to Yazawa Arts, he talked to Yamamoto's parents and they had relented, and George had only been fifteen at that time, and already possessed charm and rhetoric and charisma, and Yamamoto was still the awkward boy who stayed in the corners and only wore dresses, only became Isabella, when George came to visit. And then when his parents left, when George came over every day, when he was constantly around George at school, he wore the dresses, he grew out his hair, and George had kissed his forehead, called him beautiful, and had helped him hem his dresses, alter the sleeves, tighten the corsets. 

Yamamoto set the book down and took his glass of lemonade and walked over to the rosebushes, where white roses had once grown, the white roses that had been painted blue for Yukari's gown. White roses, precious and beautiful and rare, like George, tainted by Yukari, stolen by Yukari, and Yamamoto and Isabella had never said anything. He poured the lemonade into the dirt, watched it glimmer as the lemonade splashed against his feet. 

No, Isabella wasn't Isabella without George. 

Miwako stirred the curry as it cooked, adding the occassional pinch of salt. Mikako was going over the Happy Berry financial woes, and Alice was watching something on the television. Tsutomu had not come back home yet since his fight with Mikako, and its effect on Mikako was starting to show. Not only was Alice constantly asking and complaining about where 'daddy' was, but Mikako was drinking three cups of coffee a day and there were bags under her eyes. Miwako was the only one who seemed unaffected, but that was how things were. 

Miwako tried not to let things get to her now. She wouldn't want to break down again like she did in front of Isabella-- excuse her, Yamamoto. Things were just changing too quickly-- everything had fallen apart after they had graduated, after Yukari had left them. George would never admit it, but Yukari was the one who held Parakiss together. They were on the edge of breaking up before Arashi had scouted her. It was for Yukari that Parakiss decided to complete the senior show and the dress, it was for Yukari that they had all bonded together again and decided to overcome their differences. The year in which Yukari became Caroline was the year that everything really changed. 

George loved her. Isabella (for he was still Isabella then) was more distant. Miwako was happy that she found a friend that Arashi approved of (if not initially), and Arashi had undergone a huge change. He wasn't as grumpy, for one, and his outlook on things improved hugely. It was as if the addition of Yukari to their fashion group gave him an opportunity to start again, start over with everything. 

Everything. 

And it had been her own undoing when she had met Hiro again, when Arashi realized that they had met. And it had been her own undoing when she had decided to keep meeting Hiro, because then Arashi would keep confronting him when he saw him. And hadn't she been the first to realize it, to realize that it wasn't about confrontations? Arashi had too much pride to admit that at heart, Hiro would always remain friends with them. She didn't know now-- she hadn't talked to either of them since Arashi had decided that it _wasn't going to work out._ Didn't he think that she already knew?

Men are fickle, she thought. They're not when they find something to devote themselves to. It's our fault for humoring them. It's my fault for believing he only loved me, because he didn't. Miwako blinked away the tears in her eyes as she stared down into the bubbling pot. 

__

But it's better that he left you. Something said. _Would you prefer to lie to each other?_

Miwako sniffed at the curry and decided it was done. She turned off the stove and lifted the pot over to the table. Alice looked anxiously at her-- Miwako gave her a reassuring smile. Mikako looked up and frowned. 

"Dinner already?" She said. 

"Yes, Mika." Miwako said. "You're hungry." It was a statement, and it was simple. Unlike her life. 

"No, I'm not." 

Contradicitions again. Arashi, and Isabella, and then George, and now her older sister. Miwako sighed. 

She knew that Mikako was hungry and tired, she knew Alice was frustrated, even though the girl was too young to know what the word meant. Miwako knew she was sick of it all, that all she wanted right now was to go soak in a hot spring somewhere with a wet towel over her head and fall asleep in the sulfuric waters. 

Alice came and tugged at Miwako's skirt, a silently imploring to leave her mother alone-- she didn't want another outburst. Miwako gritted her teeth and decided she didn't want a confrontation either. 

"Suit yourself." She spat out, uncharacteristically snide, and went to the rice cooker and spooned out some rice for her and Alice. 

It didn't help much that it was also that time of the month.

The last person Arashi expected to see in the noodle shop was Hiro.

He had found a place in Shinjuku, a couple blocks away from Takashimaya Times Square. They were hiring waiters, and he figured that was one step up from being a cook, and had taken the job. So now he was wearing an black apron with pockets in the front, two pens in one pocket and a small notepad in the other, and Hiro was looking for a place to sit. Dammit. 

Satsuki, a waitress who had been around for five months, had ultimate superiority over him. She was sitting off to one side, chatting with a busboy, narrowed her eyes at him. He had only begun work this afternoon, and therefore, had more energy than her. He sneered at her and headed over to Hiro, who was draping his coat and his scarf on the empty chair next to him. Though the light was dim, Arashi noticed that Hiro's eyes brightened considerably as he approached. 

Affecting his best impersonal stance, he dug out the notepad. "Drink?" 

"Hi, Arashi." He smiled, and Arashi's brow furrowed because of an unexplicable feeling.

The cold-shoulder wouldn't work. "Hiro." He hissed, and leaned in. "It's eleven at night. We close in half an hour. Did you _just_ finish work?"

"No." Hiro shook his head, a rueful and amused smile on his face. "I usually finish work around five." 

"What are you doing here _now?_" Arashi said, getting more and more annoyed with... himself, really. Did it help that Hiro was going to college with a successful internship to help him along the way, while Arashi had just gotten a job as a waiter he might lose any minute, given his usual disposition? Damn it. 

Hiro's expression turned from an amused one to one that was slightly confused, if not bitter. "Look, if you want me to leave--" 

"No." Arashi sighed, and sat down on the chair next to him. Hiro raised an eyebrow. "It's not that."

"I'm sorry about this morning." Hiro said sincerely, and Arashi looked at his earnest expression, and decided he really wasn't going to try to... do whatever it was. Feel offended, that was it. If Hiro couldn't have lunch with him, it was no skin off his neck. It didn't mean anything. Right. 

"Don't think about it." Arashi waved his hand to dismiss the subject, but Hiro persisted. 

"No, really." Hiro leaned in. "I wanted to call you back, but you said you were using a public phone."

Arashi flushed, and hoped in the dim lighting that it wasn't noticeable. Yes, well, he never _did_ consider that. 

"And I had time this evening, but you didn't give me a chance to explain." Hiro sat back, surveyed Arashi with a bemused expression. "You're always a hothead."

"I'm always impulsive, so get over it." Arashi huffed. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here." 

"Natsukawa's not home tonight." Hiro said. "I thought I'd have a night out." 

"Is she out of town?" Arashi recalled Hiro's girlfriend, _their six-month anniversary is this week,_ he remembered, and flinched. Damn. Hiro, his girlfriend, and six months. Him, Miwako, and a recently severed relationship. _And it wouldn't have worked._ He told himself fiercely. _Because you can't love her. Because you'll never be good enough for her. For anybody._

Hiro gave him a strange look. "She's still here." 

Arashi stared blankly. "You don't live together?"

"No." Hiro shook his head. "She lives with her parents, comes over to my house sometimes." 

"How often do you do it?" Arashi said, aiming for flippancy, and missing altogether. Instead, he sounded tired, and Hiro had the decency to look concerned and offended at the same time. 

"That." He said, coughing, "is none of your business." 

Arashi tried to smile, but it faltered. "Are you two going to celebrate your six months?" 

"I have an exam this weekend." Hiro closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, hunching over in the chair. "So I can't do anything for her. I'll be studying the rest of the week." 

"Then shouldn't you should be studying now?" Arashi asked gently, and without realizing it, put a hand on Hiro's shoulder. "Honestly."

Hiro looked up, eyes somewhat bleary, and Arashi realized that Hiro was a customer and Arashi was the waiter. "I'll be right back." He said, and stood up, leaving Hiro to stare after him. 

Arashi came back with a pot of tea, ignoring the glances Satsuki was giving him. "Here." He said, and Hiro yawned as he reached for the tea. 

"Thanks." He said, and held it up to his face, inhaling the steam, without drinking it. Arashi looked at him, and then sat down next to him again. It was funny, how years of rivalry and antagonism on his part could just vanish-- but forgiveness had been chipping away at his conscience for a while.

"You still haven't explained why you're here in Shinjuku at eleven at night, when you're obviously exhausted, and when you have better reasons to stay at home." Arashi grinned as Hiro yawned again, and then brown eyes met his own, somewhat unfocussed. 

"I had to apologize to you, didn't I?" Hiro said, and smiled. "Wouldn't want you to think of me as a callous, rude bastard." 

"Too late." Arashi said, and swallowed. His throat felt dry. "Hiro--" He took a sip of the tea. "You didn't spend all night looking for me?" 

Hiro's eyes widened a bit-- Arashi could tell, he was going to fall over from fatigue. "Not the entire night, no." 

Everything suddenly seemed very serene, very tranquil, as if the air were still around them, the horrible lighting of the place actually soothing. Arashi was looking at Hiro, who was staring into his tea. 

__

Years of antagonism, just--

"_Arashi_."

Satsuki was looking at him with an expression of annoyance and amusement, and he sat upright, and then stood up in haste, nearly falling off the chair. Hiro looked bewilderedly at him, then at Satsuki, and then sat up a little straighter as well, as if he were back in class and he was about to be called on to answer the next math problem. 

"Yeah. Satsuki. Um." Arashi said, and gritted his teeth. Wonderful. He was about to be fired on his first day on the job. 

"Boys." She said. "We're closing now. Arashi, I'd like to talk to you." 

Hiro stood up nervously, took his coat and his scarf, and glanced at the tea. "How much--"

"Just go." Arashi hissed. "I'll pay for it." 

Hiro's brow furrowed. "But that--"

"Sir." Satsuki said, not unkindly. "It's all right. It's only tea." 

Hiro still looked unsure, but moved to the exit. "I'll wait for you outside." 

Arashi nodded, and then turned to Satsuki, began wiping the table off. "Are you going to tell me I'm fired?" 

"No." Satsuki shook her head and crossed her arms. "Just don't do that again." 

Arashi nodded, and scrubbed a stubborn spot on the table with increasing annoyance. 

"I'll let you go this time only because we were so near to closing time, anyway." Satsuki yawned. "There aren't that many people around at this time, usually." 

Arashi nodded, and picked up the teacups, when she walked over to him. 

"I'll do that." She said. "Just take off your apron and you're free to go." 

"Really?" Arashi raised an eyebrow. "You know, if you're always this nice, I'm going to take advantage of you."

"Oh, shut up." She smacked him on the arm. "Are you two friends?" 

Arashi paused in taking off his apron, and then set it down on a chair and stretched. "Yeah." He said, nonchalantly. "I think so." 

"You _think_ so." Satsuki said absently. "Well then. Good night."

"G'night." Arashi said, and headed for the exit, grabbing his jacket from the coatrack along the way.

Hiro was standing outside, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. "I didn't get you in trouble--?" 

Arashi made a face. "Hiro, I was a fired and it was completely and utterly your fault." 

"Oh." Hiro blinked rapidly, and Arashi shook his head and laughed. 

"You're too dense for your own good sometimes." 

They walked closely to each other, shoulders barely touching, didn't speak to each other as they rode the subway home. Hiro fell asleep as the train jolted along, and Arashi had to force himself to stay awake, because one of them had to remember to get off at the stop. 

Hiro was asleep when Arashi tried to wake him up, and walked in a half-stupor out of the train, Arashi's hand behind his back, guiding him to the stairs. 

"You are a complete invalid." Arashi huffed, and Hiro nodded his assent-- or maybe that was just his head lolling on his shoulders. "Do I have to walk you home?" 

Hiro opened his eyes for a minute, and then they closed again. "I'd appreciate that." 

Arashi looked at him for a while, and then shrugged, a small smile making its way onto his face. "You owe me one." 


	4. 4

**Roulette** ****

_Disclaimers:_ Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Tokyopop, and Zipper.

_Warnings and rants:_ Eventual slash relationships. Weird spec-fic-ness. This is my baby. (Or one of them) I'm proud of it. ;_; 

_Summary:_ Paradise Kiss, five years later-- give or take a few months. 

**Radishface**

"So where are you now?" 

"L'aeroport de Charles de Gaulle, monsieur. Et vous?" 

"Une salle de classe dans l'ecole pour les arts de Yazawa." 

"Oui, je sais." 

"Si tu sais, pourquoi est-ce que tu me demande?" 

"To practice my French, Seiji." 

"I've already heard from Hamada that your French is excellent." 

"These people are completely paranoid of other people butchering their beloved French." 

"Then I suppose you have to practice." 

"_Oui." _

Kaori was in the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, wandering around the Cinnabon stand, wondering if she should forsake her figure for fifteen minutes and indulge in a caramel-pecan bun. Seiji had called, quite unexpectedly, and she had been pleased to hear from him, but she was waiting for the moment he would ask. Of course he would ask. 

Kaori's resolve strengthened and she got in line for her caramel-pecan bun.

"Where are you headed off to?" Seiji asked, and Kaori shrugged the phone further up her shoulder as she flipped through a magazine. 

"I'm going to New York." 

"For the Caroline Herrera show or for BCBG Max Azria?" 

"Silly Seiji." Kaori smirked. "Why would anyone showcase two leading brands in one week?" 

"I don't know how long you're there for." 

"I'm actually heading for Caroline Herrera, and then I'm going to Los Angeles for the Oscar de la Renta showcase."

" Is my little Kaori is rediscovering her feminine side?" 

"No, she's just going to get inspired by the grand masters." Kaori laughed. "I'm basically getting last-minute ideas for my line before the opening week. Not everybody likes an Anna Sui copy, and Tokyo is filled with Anna-Sui wannabes." _Mikako included, Kaori thought. __And what's with combining the Burberry pattern with Chanel tweed??_

"Kaori, even _you_ couldn't put together an evening dress in a month." A pause. "And your line will be _nothing like Anna Sui." _

She sighed. "Anna Sui aside, I know the real reason you're calling." 

Seiji laughed. "Nobody's seen him anywhere lately, and I had a bit of trouble getting your number from a very elusive Hamada." 

The cashier waved for the next customer, and Kaori took her wallet out of her Louis Vuitton Murakami bag, a gift to her from George. She actually loathed the thing, but there was something about the tacky colors (and the ubiquitous "LV") that just screamed _status!! _

"George is fine." Kaori smiled absently. "He's back at my place somewhere in the old _quartier d'affaires."_

"So he's in Paris?" 

"Yes." Kaori pointed at the caramel-pecan bun in the display, and took out a five Euro as the cashier added it up. "And spending money like you wouldn't imagine. Yesterday he pre-ordered two tickets for Cannes, although I have no idea who he plans to take." _Looks like little Johji is finally using his father's account,_ Kaori added mentally. 

"Not you?" Seiji said. 

"Nope." Kaori smiled at the cashier and took the Cinnabon box. "Besides, I'm already dating someone else, and George really isn't my type." 

"I'm sure his characteristics don't suit you." Seiji said, and Kaori flushed. 

"All right, so maybe we've fooled around a little. But he needs to find himself a new girlfriend..." She paused. "Or boyfriend. He's still pining over that Yukari Hayasaka girl." 

"Caroline." 

"Yes, of course, Caroline. Just like Caroline Herrera." Kaori sat down at a table and dug into her caramel-pecan bun. "Damnit, Seiji."  

"What is it?" 

"I just hate seeing him like that." Kaori felt her heart clench, and brushed it off. 

"Pining over some woman? I know, it's not very characteristic of George." 

"No, not just that." Kaori said, her mouth full. Damn, but it was sweet. She needed some coffee later. Was there a Starbucks nearby...? "He's gone into a creative slump. You saw the dress he designed at the Yaza fashion show. It wasn't completely original, you know, but it was gorgeous all the same. But he's just been getting worse and worse, and I _swear,_ I've taken a look at some of his sketches lately and he might as well be designing for Miwako, since everything is patterened after the Gothic Lolita." She chewed. "He needs someone to pull him out of his funk." 

"I think George is just a little exhausted after that whole ordeal with Caroline." Kaori rolled her eyes at the use of that name. "She was a very... should I say it... vivacious spirit." 

"**Best of luck to her." Kaori mumbled, and crammed the rest of the caramel-pecan bun into her mouth, chewing furiously. She checked her watch. "Well, Seiji, it's been great talking to you. I'll see you around when I get back to Tokyo." **

"Is your flight being called?" 

"No, but my bladder is." 

Seiji laughed. 

Joichi had offered to take Sakura to a well-known noodle shop in Shinjuku that Sunday, and after she got over her initial disappointment at wasting a perfectly good lunch hour at some home-cooking Japanese restaurant (instead of that French bistro that had opened down in Ginza that she had been _dying to try), they were seated at the tables, calligraphy scrolls and hardwood floors and tatami mats making Joichi feel quite at home, even as Sakura squirmed impatiently in her seat. _

A blond boy with an earring in his ear and a tiny but conspicuous hole on the side of his mouth came to take their order. Joichi had ordered the udon with the sukiyaki beef, while Sakura had opted for some cold sobe noodles and tempura. They had eaten their meal in relative silence, and judging by the look on her face, Joichi assumed that Sakura had not tasted Japanese food in quite a while, not with all her socialite friends going to the French _bistros every day. _

Sakura accidentally spilled her green tea over the table and broke into pseudo-hysteria when a few drops fell onto her new skirt. The waiter had come over with a dishtowel and she had proceeded to rattle on about the dismal quality of the service, the blandness of the food, so on and so forth. Joichi had taken to looking at that hole in his mouth again, probably for a piercing of some sort, and had reassured him that no harm was done. The deathly look the waiter shot towards the phillandering Sakura and the surpressed disdain in his eyes amused Joichi, and Joichi's good mood redoubled. 

Sakura left the restaurant in a huff once they were done, saying she would be at the boutique down the street if Joichi wanted to come get her. Joichi sat there a little longer, picking at his teeth with a toothpick, marveling at how content he felt. He hadn't been this full for a while-- all those French and Italian restaurants (with their miniscule servings!) had left him feeling a little bereft that the udon noodles had cured. The waiter came over and started collecting their dishes, and Joichi reached into his wallet and pulled out five thousand yen, watching the waiter's expression morph from one of perpetual boredom to bewildered astonishment. 

"And tell me, young man" Joichi leaned in conspiratorily and smiled, pointing to the piercing hold on the side of the boy's mouth, "why you are here working when you could be frolicking around in Harajuku with the rest of your kind? It's Sunday, you know." 

The young man flushed and stumbled as he lifted the dishes, averting his eyes. "This is my job, sir, and these are the hours." 

"I wish my own son were a little more like you." Joichi sighed, got up, straightening his jacket. "It was an excellent meal-- don't mind her." He gestured in the direction of the door. "It's about time I moved on, anyway." 

The waiter was staring at him with a strangely intent expression, and Joichi raised an eyebrow. 

"I'm sorry." The waiter bowed slightly, and transferred the dishes to his other hand. "It's just that you remind me of someone I knew." 

Joichi chuckled. "Then you must be Arashi." 

Arashi took a step back in surprise and blinked. "I--"

"No, Johji spoke of you and your group often." He paused. "Or at least, when he _did speak with me."_

"We haven't seen him in a while." Arashi ventured. "Do you-- I mean-- how is he?" 

Joichi cocked his head to the side. "I spoke to Hamada--" He watched Arashi wince, and laughed. "Hamada told me she heard from Seiji, who had heard from a young correspondent in France, that George seems to be in Paris right now." Joichi shook his head. "And so Chanel and Louis Vuitton are quite accessible to him at the moment." 

Arashi blinked again, and nodded. "If he's all right, then." 

_Well, I wouldn't say that._ Joichi thought, and dismissed Arashi with a wave of his hand. "Off with you. And don't mind the tip. I'll leave it right here." 

The young man eyed the five thousand yen uncertainly, but gave him a sincere smile, however uneasy he was. "Good afternoon, sir." He said, and then headed off to the kitchens, balancing the bowls and plates in one hand. 

Joichi called for his chauffeur on his cell phone and waited as it pulled up along the curb. Sakura was nowhere in sight, and he climbed in the black Mercedes just as it started to rain. 

Yukari nervously toyed with the edge of her Michael Kors halter top dress and hoped the electric blue wasn't too _gauche_ for the occassion. She had seen Travis Fimmel just a minute ago in a Diesel Style Lab jacket and had felt slightly reassured-- the former cologne model still wallowing in his bad-boy milieu. 

For once, she wasn't here to model for anything. She had closed the contracts with Miu Miu a few days ago during her week in Seoul and would start working with the line in four weeks. The style of Miu Miu reminded her of Happy Berry, in some obscure way, with the layers and the jackets and the perpetual demeanor of mismatch.

The show had just finished, and receptions were in order. She stood by the counter, taking in the stage lights, the runway, and smiled absently. She wondered what George would say if he could see her now. After disengaging herself from the title of Mrs. To-Be-Koizumi, her career had skyrocketed, and she felt a surge of apprehension every time a new designer called-- things could only go downhill from here. Yukari fixed her eyes on the rim of her martini glass and gave it a gentle swirl. 

She had talked to Suguru yesterday, the little brat. Ever since she moved overseas, he had been keeping up with her schedule, with the emerging trends of the fashion scene-- then again, he kept up with everything-- world politics, the economy, the stock market in Tokyo _and_ New York. They had talked for almost an hour yesterday, and he reassured her that their mother was fine and yes, they were receiving the monthly checks. He had gotten himself an English tutor and was working on his accent. And Suguru was working now-- he had been promoted from the technician position at the arcade he worked at to its assistant manager, and with the wages he was making now, he told Yukari he would be able to take the whole family to Osaka in the spring.

"Including dad?" Yukari had said, surprised. 

"It wouldn't be a family vacation if he wasn't included." Suguru laughed, and Yukari found a lump in her throat. "You'll come too, Yukari. Do you think you can take some time out of your busy schedule for the second week in April? I'm deliberately calling you a couple months ahead about this, just to get on your agenda. But don't tell mother about it-- it's a surprise for the rest of them." 

Yukari blinked back the sudden, unexplainable tears in her eyes and managed a weak smile, even if Suguru couldn't see it. "Well, I'll see. I don't even know if mother wants to see me after I bolted like that." 

"Of course she does." Suguru reassured. "She knew you were searching for your own success. In my opinion, I couldn't care less about how somebody gets their money, as long as they get it." 

"Suguru--" Yukari started.

"Of course prostitution and drug money and all that is bad, bad stuff. You know I didn't mean it that way." Suguru laughed, and Yukari laughed with him. "But the fashion industry doesn't hide from mother, and neither should you." 

"Thanks." Yukari said, and heard Suguru snort. 

"It's no problem. Speaking of which, aren't you in New York right now? Let me guess-- it's either Caroline Herrera or Valentino." 

"The latter." Yukari said. And here she was, in a blue Michael Kors dress and Manolos, a martini in one hand and a Prada handbag in the other. She had seen some people walk by her with a glimmer of recognition in their eyes-- _isn't that the Japanese model? _

"Yukari Hayasaka?" A voice came, and she turned around to face an older woman, a little shorter than her, a vodka shotglass hanging between her fingers, blonde hair obviously dyed, large, wavering, glassy eyes holding a perpetually insecure expression. 

"Yukino Koizumi?" Yukari blinked, and then managed her best smile. "How are you?" 

"I'm fine!" The older woman said, breaking out into a smile. "I just-- how are _you?" _

"I'm well." Yukari nodded. "Did you enjoy the show?" 

"It was all right, I guess." Yukino turned to look at the runway. "Who knows what to expect anymore? I was never on the runway, so I wouldn't know-- I'm too short for that, and I didn't get my vitamins... never really wanted to eat." 

Yukari stared at the back of Yukino's head for a moment. Five years had passed since she had last seen her-- the woman was in her mid-40s and _already lapsing into incoherency. Maybe it was a result of her ongoing alcoholism. _

"So, how's family?" Yukari said, deliberately testing herself, pleased when she felt nothing when she mentioned it.

"Oh, it's as irritating as ever, I suppose." Yukino scowled, and stumbled as she turned to the bar and slammed down the shotglass, signalling for another shot. "Being demoted down to the status of the twenty-second wife doesn't do wonders for my skin, if that's what you're asking." 

Yukari looked at the woman out of the corner of her eyes and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Pity." 

"I swear, his tastes just get younger and younger. It's a good thing I get some form of alimony, or I'd never be able to buy anything-- even though we were never married. But he supports me anyway. That's not what you call alimony, is it? I suppose that's all right, but what's a woman supposed to do when she still loves the same man?" She turned to Yukari, eyes imporing, as if Yukari knew the answer. 

"I have no idea." Yukari replied cooly, and set her martini glass down. "And how's George?" 

"George." Yukino's eyes widened. "Oh, well, I heard that he was somewhere in Europe. I'm really not sure." She sighed, and looked at Yukari, a sincere smile on her face. "He really missed you when you left, though." 

_In vino veritas._ Yukari thought, and looked away. _She has some compassion for her son._

"But you have guts, Yukari." Yukino went on, and grasped the shotglass eagerly when the bartender handed it back to her. "George is an exact replica of his father, and when you left him-- when I heard about that, I don't really know what it was that I felt-- some form of happiness, I suppose? Don't be like me, Yukari." She said, and raised her hand in a semi-toast, a far-away look in her vacant eyes. "I used to be a model too, and-- don't become me. Or anybody else." Yukino closed her eyes in concentration. "Just be yourself. That's the best advice I can offer you. Don't get stuck with a cold husband and a bastard son-- I mean that both ways, just be yourself, and--" She tipped her head back and downed the vodka. "That's right." 

Yukari pursed her lips and watched as Yukino slumped over the counter, hand loosely clenched around the shotglass. She sat down next to her and pulled out a cigarette from her handbag and then dug around for a lighter. 

"Bad girl." Somebody said, and when Yukari looked up, the cigarette was snatched out from between her lips. 

"Shimamoto." Yukari said, mildly surprised. "I thought you'd be around." She looked at Yukino's prone form, and hid a smirk. "She's never too far without you." 

"Rather sad, isn't it?" Shimamoto said, and gently shook Yukino's prone form. "Wake up, Yuki." 

"Kozue?" Came a burbled response. "Go 'way." 

Shimamoto shrugged and sat down next to Yukari, flicking the cigarette somewhere into the mingling crowds. Yukari watched with some amusement. 

"So how's the little model who could?" Shimamoto asked. 

"She's doing well." Yukari replied, and looked Shimamoto over-- Burberry silk scarf, Chanel tweed jacket, Anne Klein shoes, Louis Vuitton Murakami handbag (she didn't understand their appeal at _all_), and a pair of nondescript grey business slacks. She turned to her half-empty martini glass after her assessment, and looked at the runway again. "How's the modeling agency?"

"It's not exactly thriving." Shimamoto gave a wry smile. "It seems to Tokyo that you're the last Japanese model we'll ever have." She poked Yukino in the shoulder and got another burble in reply. "Congratulations on your contract with Miu Miu, by the way." 

Yukari smiled but said nothing. Shimamoto seemed more subdued-- less flashy, obnoxious-- or perhaps it was just the five years in between them, between everything. Her eyes had a serene quality in them that hadn't been there before, her demeanor seemed less icy and derisive than it was indifferently sympathetic. Yukari couldn't explain it, and after a minute, decided she wouldn't bother. 

"So," Yukari said, and searched her head for a conversation topic. "How's--" she gestured in Yukino's direction. 

"Still pathetically independent upon everything." Shimamoto said. Yukari watched her out of the corner of her eye, saw how Shimamoto's fingers combed briefly through Yukino's hair before she drew her hand back. "And after so many years of hoping, her dear Joichi still hasn't come back to her." 

Yukari nodded. "Do you take care of her?" 

Shimamoto looked up sharply, and Yukari kept her gaze fixed on the runway, trying to imagine Yukino on the runway, hips jutting, shoulders swinging, head thrown back. In her head, she saw the ghost of Yukino's runway model trip over her expensive and high stilletos and fall face first into the audience. Instead of making her laugh, the thought disturbed her. 

"I don't know who else would." Shimamoto replied distantly, and Yukari nodded again. 

"Well." Yukari said, and adjusted her dress. She turned to Shimamoto and smiled. "That's my date over there." She pointed into the crowd, and Shimamoto eyes flickered in the direction. 

"Really?" She said, and Yukari heard the derisive, sarcastic, mocking Shimamoto she once knew, maybe more in her mind than in reality. 

"Yes." Yukari said, and her smile wavered. She knew Shimamoto knew, knew that it wasn't her date waiting there, knew that it wasn't Yukari's fault that there was that perpetual need for cigarettes, knew that Yukari was so alone, so hopelessly alone. "And--" She said, swallowing. "How's George?" 

Shimamoto shook her head. "He's in Paris." She said. "That was when I heard from Kaori." 

"Ah." Yukari said. "Well, I'll talk to you later." 

"Come visit us in Tokyo." 

Yukari walked to the restrooms and went into one of the bathroom stalls, sat down on the toilet, and held her tears back. No, it wasn't because of George and Kaori, she didn't care about that, they could do whatever they wanted to do. It was Suguru's optimism, and her mother, and a father she didn't even know. It was that she expected herself to be able to return, and that they wanted her to go back, and it was because she didn't know what was going to happen, if anything was going to happen. 

Yukari sat there in the toilet stall, feeling completely pathetic and ridiculous. When she emerged, there was a line for the toilets. She felt absurdly proud of herself that she hadn't cried, for what a scene it would have been-- she wasn't using waterproof mascara, and it would have left a trail of black ink running down her face, and all those people waiting would have seen her and thought, _isn't that the Japanese model?_

_Ring, ring, ring._

"We're sorry there's no one here to take your call, but if you'll  leave a message, we'll try to return to you as soon as possible." 

"This message is for Isabella-- this is George Koizumi. I'm sorry I haven't called you, but I've been… busy. Wandering around. I just wanted to say hello, to say that I miss you, that I miss Tokyo. Does Sebastien still have my bottle of Dom Perignon '84?" 

_Click._

The number had registered as George's cell, and Yamamoto had picked up the phone and had dialed, and had received the answering machine yet again. 

"Hello, George. This is Yamamoto, returning your call. I'm fine, and Sebastien is well. I'm sorry that you've missed me. The Dom Perignon is still in the wine cellar. And George--" His voice caught. "If you ever come back to Tokyo, you _bastard, I'm going to take that bottle of Dom Perignon and smash it over your head." _

Hiro had opened the door to his apartment and had stepped back in surprise. 

"Oh, don't mind me." Natsukawa smiled and brushed past him, her arms full of groceries. "I haven't lost the key-- it's just that I don't have any extra hands." 

"You don't have to do this, you know--" Hiro shut the door and trailed after her tentatively, wondering if he should comment on her skirt-- she usually never wore skirts, and had only done so at school because it was part of the uniform. "I mean--"

"You silly boy." Natsukawa said teasingly, setting the groceries down on the counter. "You can't be eating instant food all day if you're going to pass your exams." She grinned at him. "And really, you shouldn't have looked so shocked to see me-- I _did_ call and tell you I was going to drop by today." 

"Well--" Hiro said, a little flustered. "I thought you were somebody else." 

"Who?" Natsukawa raised an eyebrow, and then her smile faded. "Oh, that boy." She turned back to the groceries and started unpacking them, and Hiro stood there, unsure of what to say. "Well." Natsukawa said. "How is the little yakuza doing?" 

Her scathing disdain was barely concealed, and Hiro pursed his lips together. "Natsukawa, he's not like that." 

"Really?" She said, opening the refrigerator door. "Well, that's good, Hiro, that one of us has faith in him, because I'm sure that's going to save him from the dredges of society." 

"You shouldn't jump to conclusions."

She looked at him in the eyes and gave him a tight smile. "Didn't you jump to conclusions when you heard the doorbell?"  

Hiro had no reply for that, and went back to his desk and picked up where he left off in his textbook. Moments later, Natsukawa came out of the kitchen and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He gave in and rested his head on her shoulder, and she pressed a kiss into his hair. 

"I'm sorry." She said. "I'm just a little stressed."

"We all are." Hiro said. 

 "I was studying all afternoon for my own exams, and I thought you'd like a break." Natsukawa said.  "So I came over, and then we talk about _him, and you know I don't like him." _

Hiro disengaged himself from her arms. "I know you don't." He said. "But he's an old friend." 

"An old friend." Natsukawa said absently, massaging his shoulders. Her fingers dug painfully into his back, and Hiro winced. She stopped, pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, and went back into the kitchen.

Hiro didn't know why he felt so uncomfortable all of a sudden, and although he tried to, he couldn't concentrate on the book in front of him.  

"How old of a friend is he?" Natsukawa called from the kitchen, and Hiro stared absently at the text, trying to understand it.

"I've known him since grade school." He replied. 

"So how come I've never heard of him before?" She said, and Hiro heard the sound of something frying, the oil sizzling. 

"We--" Hiro's voice caught. "We had a fight." 

"Over what?" 

"A girl." 

"And I suppose you lost to him, because I've never heard you talk about this girl, either." 

"She was his girlfriend until recently." 

"So you had this fight in grade school?" He heard Natsukawa laugh.

"No. It was in middle school." 

"And what kind of an idiot girl would chose a delinquent over you?" 

Hiro looked up and saw Natsukawa's head poking out behind the kitchen wall. "She did what she wanted to do." He said. 

"And why are you friends again all of a sudden?" Natsukawa asked. 

"I--" Hiro buried his head in his hands. "I don't know. I just saw Arashi one day, and he saw me, and it had been years since the fight, and I had never been really angry with him anyway." 

"And that's it?" 

"What else do you want to hear?" Hiro said, frustrated. "And-- he's was a little out of luck, but he has a job now, and I don't see why you think he's such a bad person." 

"I like to think of myself as a nice, respectable girl, and you as a nice, respectable boy." Natsukawa called from the kitchen in a sing-song voice. "And nice, respectable people do not get involved with Harajuku gangsters." 

"He's not--" Hiro clenched the edge of the table. "He was with a fashion brand that helped Yukari get started. And look at where Yukari is now. Tell me that's not respectable." 

"Hiro, I'm not condemning your relationship with that whore." Natsukawa said, carrying out a platter of tempura and setting it in front of him. "But even _she's better off than he is."_

Hiro gritted his teeth. "She was your friend, too." 

"Has she even called you once, Hiro? After we graduated, did you two ever _communicate_? I thought she had a thing for you." 

No, Hiro thought, his heart sinking. No, she had never once called. And all that concern for her, all his efforts into trying to bring her back—to what? To security? To a job behind a desk? To college? 

"What's his job that you were talking about? Is he corrupting the youth of our country? Is he selling narcotics?"

Hiro struggled to keep his emotions under control. "He's a waiter." 

"Oh, that's wonderful." She said, and went back into the kitchen. "I suppose that's considered the top of the ladder among his people." 

Hiro stood up and slammed his hands against the table, breathing heavily. "Natsukawa, are you _deliberately_ trying to provoke me?" 

She set a bowl of miso soup in front of him and didn't answer. 

They ate their meal in silence, with Hiro occasionally glancing at his book, letting his anger settle. This wasn't the first time Natsukawa had done this. He looked up at her occasionally, wondering if she was going to apologize, if _he should apologize, wondering if he should speak first. She kept her eyes averted and stared determinedly at the food. _

When he had finished, Hiro put his notes away and stacked up his dishes. Natsukawa stood up at the same time, food still wiping her mouth with a napkin, and he looked at her, surprised.

"You're done?" He asked, and froze when he suddenly felt her lips on his, forceful. She took advantage of his shock and pushed her tongue through, insistent, trying to get a reaction out of him. His grip on the dishes faltered, and they fell to the floor. 

"You're so _dense,_ Hiro." She said when she pulled back, her voice coarse and husky, and she pulled herself against him. "God, Hiro, we've never done this and it seems like you never _care--" She kissed him again, silencing his response. "But I know you do, just _tell me--" _ _

"Natsukawa--" He choked, pushing her away. "What--" 

"What do you think I'm doing?" She whispered, and pushed him towards the couch, and they both fell onto it. Her hand strayed to his belt, and she undid it with one hand, her other hand winding around his neck. "What the fuck are you _waiting for?" _

And it was a good question, and Hiro found himself staring up at the ceiling, somewhere a million miles away, as she undid his pants and pulled up her skirt. He wasn't really there, not really on the couch in his apartment-- it was actually raining where he was, sunny at the same time, and there wasn't anybody in that street except for him. He was supposed to be a small boy, but he wasn't, and the person sitting next to him, watching the rain with him, wasn't a boy either, and Hiro thought it was a little like deja-vu, because he knew this place, this scene, and he knew he had splashed in those rain puddles once upon a time, but they had only been children then. 

The person beside him took his hand and out into the rain even as he protested, and as soon as they were out in the open, lightning flashed and thunder rolled and Hiro opened his eyes and realized they were full of tears. 

"Hiro?" She was saying, running her fingers through her hair. It was sticky between them, and Hiro blinked as his eyes focused to his surroundings, and he was back in his apartment, and Natsukawa was kissing the corners of his eyes, and he realized they were wet. 

"If I had known it was your first time," she was murmuring into his ear, rocking on top of him. "If I had known--" 

"Get off." He said, more calmly than he felt, and felt her go still. 

"What?" She said. 

He sat up, pushing her off of him, and she fell onto the couch. "Natsukawa, you _didn't." He said numbly, and buried his face in his hands. "Not like this."_

She tried to speak, and when she did, her voice was hoarse, disbelieving. "Hiro, what were you expecting me to do, it's been more than six months--" 

"Just-- go." He said. 

He didn't watch her leave-- he listened to the patter of footfalls and the slamming of the door, and then everything was still.  

Hiro cleaned up the dishes on the floor and washed the rest, and then he took a shower. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he dressed, grabbed his coat and scarf off the coat rack, not knowing where he was going, letting his mind wander as his legs carried him to the subway station, to a train bound for Shinjuku. 

Miwako thought there was just something so confining about being in the house all day. It wasn't that she minded at all, no, of course not. Somebody had to take care of Alice while Mikako was sulking, still. Tsutomu had come back home now, after being away for days (that drove Mikako crazy, even if her older sister would never admit it), but they were on no-speaking terms. Miwako couldn't imagine what the problem was, but she guessed it had something to do with the new photographer Mikako had hired-- and much of the new staff that Mikako had hired for Happy Berry. 

Miwako had put Alice to sleep early just before Tsutomu came home so the child wouldn't be awake to witness another barricade of wills as her mother and father shot icy glances at each other. Miwako knew it was just a stage, but at this point in her life, she supposed that anything and everything could come to an end, and that nothing appeared as it really was.

_Arashi,_ she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat. _And Isabella, and Caroline, and George._

_Paradise Kiss,_ she thought, blinking back the tears. 

Technicalities aside, Paradise Kiss had been revitalized by the admittance of Caroline into their group. George had been the one to start it to fulfill the graduation requirements -- Caroline was the thread that had tied all four of them together. And Caroline had been beautiful, glamorous, skinny, and everybody had warmed toward her, because she was what they all wanted to be-- hidden talent, wallflowers waiting to bloom. They all saw something of themselves in Caroline, and when they had graduated, when Caroline had gotten her first _real contract from a __real modeling agency, not just Treetop, not just Shimamoto's apartment firm, they had all found in themselves a surge of hope, a tiny spark of optimism. Perhaps, they had thought, perhaps, if Caroline can do it, so can we. _

And then suddenly, so suddenly, out of the blue, George had come back to Tokyo from touring with Caroline, his face was ashen when Miwako and Arashi went to pick him up from the airport. They had gone back to the studio via subway, hoping George wouldn't think it too plebian, and back in the basement, Isabella's greeting had been ignored, the dinner rolls pushed aside, cut apart and spread around on the plate. 

They had found out a week later that Caroline had _dumped George, _dumped_ him because he was an old birthday cake, once fun and exciting and a luxury, and now old and stale and the frosting was flaking. And the three of them couldn't really fathom it even though they had all seen it coming, of course it was coming. Look at Caroline. Look at who she could become. _

It was a revelation that they had pushed away, that they had denied simultaneously, but it was there. Perhaps, they had thought, perhaps Caroline, perhaps Yukari is the only one out of us who is destined to succeed and become _somebody. _

George had left one day without leaving a note, but he had _seen Isabella before he left, even if he hadn't told that he was leaving. Arashi hid his anxiety and hoped the bastard "wouldn't do anything stupid," and Isabella had been unnaturally composed and quiet, sitting on the loveseat in the middle of the studio, eyes roaming over the pink wallpaper._

Miwako had felt something break inside her, and she had held her tears back that day. It wasn't her heart that was breaking-- no, that would come later, when everything _else_ came apart, when Arashi told her that, _no, Miwako, it won't work_, it was something else that day, that year. It was Paradise Kiss that had finally broken, and she wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. 

During the years George had went on tour with Caroline, she had been helping out, time to time, in the Happy Berry boutique in Ginza. Arashi and his band were in the process of cutting a record deal and they performed concerts with other bands on Sundays in Harajuku. Isabella had been designing clothes, and although the couture was rather simple, the patterns reflected a certain strain of genius, and even Arashi had to nod approval. It had seemed like everything was going well. 

And then George had disappeared, Arashi had said goodbye, and Isabella had become Yamamoto. It had been a little much for Miwako to handle all within a month, and Mikako's own drama was still ongoing. She barely exchanged words with Tsutomu in accordance with her sister's wishes, but Miwako still packed his bento every morning and set the table for him and left the dinner on the stove before he came home. The bentos would be gone from the refrigerator the next morning, so Miwako knew that Tsutomu was taking them with him, even if he wasn't eating them. 

She wondered if George would be coming back to Tokyo. There was a part in her that hoped that once George came back, everything would be restored to the way it had been before. Yet even George's easy smile and excessive, histrionic charm couldn't repair the unrepentant, empty stare in Isabella's eyes, and it wouldn't bring Arashi back to her, and it wouldn't bring Caroline back to the studio, back to Paradise Kiss.

A few days ago, Miwako had been offered a job by Mikako. The bigger sister had approached Miwako in the morning when Miwako was making breakfast and getting ready to send Alice to school. It seemed that Mikako had not gotten a good sleep because her eyes were bloodshot again, premature wrinkles creasing the corners of her eyes. Tsutomu had left extremely early in the morning, probably around four-thirty. Mikako had poured herself a cup of tea and was staring out the window when she offered Miwako the job of being Happy Berry's P.R. 

Miwako had always thought that Mikako had handled all the P.R. affairs rather well herself, but Mikako explained that because she was so busy with the executive duties, she didn't always have time. 

"Who's going to take care of Alice?" Miwako had shot back, inexplicably annoyed, and Mikako hadn't said anything else that morning. Alice had wandered into the kitchen moments later, waddling in her pink pajamas, and had given her mother a customary hug before going to stand by Miwako and lean against the counter as Miwako stirred the _congee._

Mikako had left the house as Alice was getting dressed, and Miwako set out breakfast for her niece as she sat down on the sofa and stared at the blank television screen. They had rode the subway together, Alice's hand in Miwako's, and Miwako had dropped her off at the gate of the school, and waved good-bye to her. 

As she watched Alice walk off, Miwako had a sinking feeling that maybe Mikako could be like Yukari, become so successful and cold and aloof that she would leave everybody else behind. 

Arashi liked to think he hadn't been watching the door, but he had. He was servicing a table at the time-- a young couple, and with the both of them drunk, it had taken a while to get their orders out of them. 

Hiro's hands were thrust in his pockets, the familiar cream-colored scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. Arashi had tried to catch his eye as he headed toward the kitchen, to no avail.  

"Table seventeen." Arashi grumbled to the cook, who was smoking out in the hallway. "Two more orders-- just a shaved ice and two _Kirin." _

"What the hell?" The cook muttered, exhaling, and Arashi watched as the smoke disappeared into the air. "Why couldn't they just go to a bar?"

Arashi shook his head. "No shaved ice?" 

"Maybe." The cook held out the cigarette, and Arashi shook his head. "Suit yourself. Go to the refrigerator and take the two beers out of the fridge." He paused, sucking on the cigarette. "Make that three. I'm thirsty." 

Arashi chuckled and did as he was told, slipping the bottle into the cook's apron pocket as his back was turned. "It's the last one." He said. 

The cook looked up from grinding the ice and grinned. "Lucky me." 

Arashi grabbed a tray and filled two glasses with ice, and was about to head out when he saw Satsuki in the doorway. 

"Your friend is here." She said, crossing her arms. 

Arashi shrugged and shifted the tray to his other hand. "I know." 

"I told him you wouldn't get off until closing time." 

"And suppose he wants to order something?" 

Satsuki smirked and held up the order slip. "Beer." She paused. "And, if I'm right about his current disposition, he's going to need a lot of it."  

"What's wrong?" Arashi raised his eyebrows, and then realized he had said it aloud. "I mean, I noticed something when I passed him, but--" 

"I have no idea." Satsuki shrugged. "Well, get him the beer, and I'll let you off early tonight." She checked her watch. "It doesn't seem like there'll be more customers, anyway." 

"We're out of beer." Arashi said. 

"Damn." Satsuki rolled her eyes. "Is Tatsuya swiping freebies again?" She sighed good-naturedly. "That's coming out of his paycheck." 

It turned out that the drunken couple had left and Hiro had probably gone to the bathroom, because Arashi saw his coat and scarf hung over a chair by the bar. There was no one else in the shop, and Arashi set the two beers down on the counter, marveling at their stroke of good luck-- a bottle for each of them. 

Arashi closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he saw Hiro next to him, smiling at nothing in particular. Arashi looked at the bottle clenched in his hand-- half of it was empty. 

"You drifted off." Hiro said absently, and took another drink. 

Arashi opened his own bottle of _Kirin,_ and took a chug. "How long?" 

Hiro shook his head. "A couple minutes. Don't worry about it." 

"So." Arashi paused. "What happened?" 

Hiro looked up, his eyes glassy. "What happened?" 

"I asked you first." Arashi pointed out. 

It was quiet in the restaurant without the other customers, and the music blared faintly over the speakers (koto music, Arashi thought), and he could hear the voices of Satsuki and Yamato from the kitchen, presumably arguing about the stolen beer. He turned to Hiro, who was staring at him with an intent expression. Arashi blinked. 

"How many times did you and Miwako do it?" 

Arashi laughed, a little uncomfortably. "Do what?" 

Hiro squirmed, and peeked out at Arashi from under his bangs. "Made love."

Arashi fidgeted in his chair, anger welling up in him for a reason he couldn't place. "For one thing, it's none of your business." 

"You're throwing my words back in my face." Hiro said, a faint smile on his face as Arashi realized that he _was_. "The only reason--" Hiro started, and took a breath, "the only reason I said that before was because I didn't want you to know I'd never done it with Natsukawa." 

Arashi wanted to laugh, but it wouldn't have been appropriate. "Well, that's you. Maybe she just didn't do it for you." 

"No, I mean." Hiro sighed, and buried his face in his arms. Arashi barely picked up the next few words. "I've never done it." 

Now this was surprising news. "Oh." 

"It wasn't--" Hiro started, and faltered. "It just wasn't. You know. Something wasn't there." 

Arashi sighed, and hid a smile. "What wasn't there? Too loose? Too tight? Breasts not big enough?" 

Hiro sat up abruptly and looked at Arashi in open-mouthed shock. "You--" 

"I'm just kidding." Arashi shook his head. "You said something was missing. Probably lube." 

Hiro eyed him sadly, but a smile was starting at the corner of his mouth. Arashi caught himself staring, and looked away. "But," he said hurriedly. "Wasn't there that thing with Yukari?"

Hiro's eyes widened. "What about Yukari?" 

"I just thought—" Arashi said, suddenly flustered. "That you and her. You know." 

"That's what Natsukawa thought, too." Hiro laughed. "No. Never. She was going out with that guy. The one that Miwako told me about—wasn't he the boss of your fashion mafia?" Hiro smiled easily, and Arashi bit his lip, trying to keep from smiling like an idiot. Funny, how somebody else's laughter was contagious. 

"Ringleader of our traveling circus." Arashi muttered. "His dad's a decent guy, though." 

Hiro raised an eyebrow. "You know his father?" 

Arashi shrugged. "I got a fat tip from him today." 

Hiro's eyes widened. "What, he ate here?" 

"You never come for lunch." Arashi said, keeping the accusation out of his voice. "You really should. Even though Tatsuya's a drunk--" Arashi laughed. "Anyway. I got five thousand." 

Hiro smiled. "You can be nice when you want to, fucker." 

Arashi bit his lip-- yes, Hiro couldn't hold his alcohol. One bottle of Kirin and he was spouting profanities. Hiro's cheeks were flushed, his hair was jet black in the dim light, and Arashi self-consciously picked at his own locks-- brittle, fragile, synthetic to the touch. And here he was, Hiroyuki Tokumori, depressed because his first time with a girl didn't go the way he planned. And yet--

_No._ Arashi shook his head, and suddenly felt uncertain, even though he didn't know what he was denying. 

"Why the hell did you come, Hiro?" Arashi spat out, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, trying to block the fact that he was frustrated for no reason. 

Here he was, Hiroyuki Tokumori, depressed because his first time with a girl didn't go the way he planned, depressed because something was _missing, of all the stupid things, and he had to come and remind Arashi of Miwako, of Miwako's tightness and the heat of her, and Arashi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, telling himself it was Miwako, the dim lights in the restaurant, and that he really shouldn't-- shouldn't--_

Hiro's gaze was probably somewhere on Arashi's forehead as they faced each other, and Arashi's eyes flickered as he took in Hiro's features, and compared those to the memories he had in his head, that of so many years ago, and now that Hiro was _deflowered,_ did he really look that much different? Did he? 

"You've really changed." Hiro said, a gentle smile on his face, and for a split second Arashi saw everything clearly, but before he could understand it, he slipped back into the safe, warm veil of alcohol-induced drowsiness.

"How?" Arashi said, and Hiro's hand was on the counter, and Arashi placed his hand right next to Hiro's, so that they were almost touching. He heard Hiro breathe in sharply, and his own heart beat a little faster, a little louder. 

"You're quieter." Hiro said. "Calmer." 

"Is that a bad thing?" 

"No."

There was a moment of silence, their hands resting next to each other but not touching, and Arashi was so aware of himself, of the empty beer bottle in front of him, of the dim lights and Hiro's quiet desperation, the feigned tranquility.. "Hiro." He said. 

"I came." Hiro said, "because you were here."

Arashi wouldn't understand it later, but at the moment, it made perfect sense. 

They both seemed to have fallen asleep at the bar, because when Arashi woke up later, Hiro was slumped over the counter, the side of his face on one bent arm, and there was a note in front of him in Satsuki's handwriting, and a set of keys. 

_You lazy asshole._ It said. _When you wake up, let yourself out and make sure to lock the door behind you. I expect to see you at work in the morning, no excuses._

He shook Hiro awake, and they went and raided the refrigerator, the entire restaurant to themselves. When Arashi finally remembered there was no more alcohol, Hiro chased him around the tables until he collapsed in a chair, breathless and laughing. 

He and Hiro took the train to Asakusa and went to one of the rural pubs. When Arashi was down to one thousand yen, they headed back down to the subway and took a train back to Hiro's apartment, not caring if anybody saw them as drunk as they were. 

When they finally reached Hiro's place, Hiro threw his scarf and his coat somewhere in the kitchen and toed off his shoes and socks, asleep the moment he fell on the couch. Arashi was at a loss for a few moments, wondering if he should stay, knowing Hiro wouldn't mind if he spent the night. He hunted around for a blanket, grabbed the one off Hiro's bed, and draped it over the sleeping form on the couch. Arashi found a throw pillow lying on the ground and curled up with it, sitting down at the end of the couch, his fingers weaving through Hiro's hair.

"Mmph." Hiro mumbled, and Arashi smiled, feeling warm and hazy and pleasantly dizzy. 

"Need a pillow?" Arashi said, whispered, because his voice was gone from all the laughing they'd done, from all the things they had said. 

"No." Hiro said, and shifted so that his head was resting on Arashi's thigh. 

When they finally fell asleep, it was five in the morning. 

There seem to be a lot of post-PK-manga fics out on FF.net, so I'm going to assert this fic's authenticity. Or something. Maybe I shouldn't.

As for next time (considering there WILL be a next time, because there WILL!), be prepared for more angst on Isabella/Yamamoto's behalf (he only got like… a paragraph, in this chapter, so I'm sorry, Isabella fans! I'll make it up to you!). Yukari shall remain a confused bitch, Miwako will try to strike out on her own, and George is still at large somewhere. And always, my favorites—Hiro and Arashi—shall get appropriate fic-time. 

Comments are much appreciated, and I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! ^_^ 


End file.
